A Wayward Journey
by Reverent
Summary: Eragon did not think staying behind in Helgrind to save Sloan would change the world. When two more Ra'zac appear, they show him just how wrong he is, sending him on a wayward journey that will challenge everything he knows and the love he can't forget.
1. An Unfortunate Occurence

"_Eragon…"_ It was Arya's voice, of course. Little else had dominated his mind the past few hours as he'd drummed his feet against the forest underbrush and road dust alike, pounding the sore skin on the soles of his feet into a torn, blistered imitation of human hide. Or was it elven…? It mattered little, but such things always tended to fester within his mind when they came to light. It had bothered him ever since he'd been changed at the Blood Oath Celebration.

_What am I?_ Eragon thought absently, the majority of his mind focused on the waking dreams that had replaced the blissful silence of sleep. It was a strange thing, the fact that he was no longer able to think of himself as human. But neither was he elf; he was something in between, and no one-except perhaps whatever gods there might be above-could explain the conundrum to him.

"_Eragon…"_ Arya called again, the features of her striking face coming to the fore of his mind's eye and causing him to forget that which he contemplated. She was truly beautiful, hypnotically so. Scarcely could he concentrate on anything else when she was close.

_But she'll not have me,_ Eragon bitterly reminded himself. Frustration and heartache soured the good mood that had grown at seeing her, simmering within him until he wanted nothing more than to strike something.

Arya smiled at him, her full lips lush and looking invitingly delicious as they curved with the gesture. Eragon's foul mood was suddenly gone, shattered with the simple movement and replaced with a giddy happiness that threatened to overwhelm all reason. It was, for the most part, successful; Eragon found himself devoting his entire consciousness to the waking dream.

Emerald eyes twinkling, the dream Arya leaned down over him, her soft form pressing against his chest, surrounding his head with a veil of lustrous black tresses. Beating so fast it was nearly painful, Eragon's heart gave a short jump as her delicate lips met his.

Unfortunately, the embrace was short lived, for Arya did not seem to be interested in kissing him. Instead, she leaned down around his cheek, tickling Eragon's nose with a strand of her hair as she put her mouth to his ear.

_Even in a dream,_ Eragon thought, misery consuming him. _Even in a dream, she'll not have me._

The dream Arya did not seem to notice his depression, but whispered in his ear, _"Beware, Eragon…"_

Bewildered, Eragon turned his head to look at her, vividly aware that their faces were less than an inch apart. Her skin was glowing with a faint white light, the very edges nearly translucent, as if she were fading. _"Why?"_ he asked her. _"Beware of what?"_

Arya slowly shook her head, the tips of her pointed ears brushing across Eragon's cheek, light as a feather. In an even quieter voice, she said, _"Beware, Eragon… They are coming…"_

A loud crash echoed around Eragon, not of his dream, but in the world around his resting body. It was no new occurrence, for even in his dreams, he was aware of his surroundings… At least since the Blood Oath Celebration.

Still, it was foolish to ignore such a clamor. Eragon knew it could very well be dangerous, and that Oromis would have had quite a lecture for him if he decided to remain in his dreams for the sake of this specter of Arya…

Taking one last look at this dream Arya, Eragon regretfully sat upright, shaking his mind free of the waking dreams.

A purplish-blue light flashed violently before him as he opened his eyes, the rumbling roar of thunder shaking the trees around him. Fascinated, Eragon remained where he was, listening intently to the sound for a long time, captivated by the power and authority in the natural growl of the clouds. It was like the roar of a lion, this roll of thunder, except stronger, more impressive. Only the voice of a dragon could match it in force.

Standing up, Eragon looked around for shelter; it would not do to be caught in the rain, and a poor death it would be for one such as him to be killed by a stroke of lightning. Chuckling at how ridiculous the event could be, Eragon slung his pack over his shoulders and set off, the armor within rattling against itself.

And then it began to rain. Fat, cold drops splashed against Eragon's head as he strolled through the forest, running down over the yet unfamiliar shape of his pointed ears and collecting at his neck, where the streams joined together to form rivers that quickly soaked his shirt. Belatedly, Eragon wished he had decided to spend the night at the broken elven outpost he'd come across that afternoon. iEdur Ithindra,/i the mad magician Tenga had called it. Despite the old dabbler's eccentricity, it would have been worth the loss of time to escape this rain…

The silhouettes of the trees around him were lit with lucid clarity as another bolt struck the earth no more than a mile away, the thunder shaking the forest not long thereafter. Although he was already near soaked, Eragon could not help but marvel at the beauty of this common thing called a thunderstorm. It was violent and primal, the energy it gave off, and it had a wild, untamed magnificence, predatory in nature. In this fashion, it was like the sea… _And,_ Eragon realized a moment later, _Saphira… If I'm being honest with myself, Arya too… That's probably why I love her. That's why I'm in awe of such things. _

Enjoying the savage energy of the storm, Eragon inhaled deeply through his nose, reveling in his heightened sense of smell as myriad scents rushed up his nostrils. The air had a moist, tangy aroma, as it always did during a storm. Smiling, Eragon decided it was his second favorite scent in the world, after the crushed pine needle scent that hung like a mist around Arya's skin.

_Arya,_ Eragon thought. _All my thoughts come back to Arya. Will I ever be free of her? Will I ever be able to forget her? _The old pain returned then, the heartbreak and loneliness. He suddenly wished Saphira was there, just so he'd have someone to talk to.

Thunder rolled once more through the forest, but just before its strike, Eragon heard a distant sound, a clicking noise that made his skin crawl and sent a shudder down his spine. Foul memories and images suddenly came to mind, for he knew where he'd heard the sound before.

_Ra'zac,_ he thought, tensing. Every sense searching for further signs, he cast his mind out in every direction, only to remember that Ra'zac could not be sensed in that way. Disbelief filled him as he scanned his surroundings. The Ra'zac were dead, he'd seen them die, participated in their killing. How could they still be alive? And more worrisome, how were they here, how had they found him?

Nothing presented itself to his search, no sound nor glimpse… But that meant little, storming at night as it was. He could have easily missed something.

Heart pounding ferociously, Eragon continued to search the landscape around him, hands itching for weaponry that he knew he didn't have. Futilely, his hand inched along his belt, the Belt of Beloth the Wise, hunting for the hilt of a sword. Only a dagger met his fumbling fingers. Without pausing, he tore it free, the steel of the blade flashing brilliantly as a bolt of lightning struck a nearby tree.

Frozen in place, Eragon searched his surroundings with both his heightened senses and his mind for any indication that the Ra'zac might be close. If the Ra'zac were still alive, that is.

The storm raged around him as he waited, but no signal was forthcoming. After a time, Eragon returned his weapon to its sheath with a sigh and continued on his way, chuckling at himself.

_I must be imagining things… Or maybe I'm just getting paranoid. Perfectly acceptable, considering all that has happened to me, but still... I should be able to discern what's real and what isn't._

Mind wandering, Eragon remembered that time in the camp-before the assault on Helgrind-when he and Roran had leapt to their feet at the sound of a sword, only to discover that it had been a fallen rock. He chuckled in spite of himself, both amused and irritated by his frayed nerves.

Lightning flashed again, illuminating the outline of a single, humped figure some twenty feet ahead, standing between two tall trees, as if a guardian of a monarch gate. Purple light flashed across the blade in his hand.

_Ra'zac!_ Eragon screamed in his head, recognizing the shape of the figure. _Impossible! I killed you, I killed you…_ Nevertheless, the Ra'zac was there.

And now it was leaping toward him, crashing loudly through the underbrush as its fetid odor wafted ahead of it. Sinking into a crouch, Eragon pulled the dagger free once more, preparing himself to fight and kill the Ra'zac.

"This time," Eragon said calmly, leaning forward, "Stay dead." Confident in his abilities to defeat a single Ra'zac, Eragon rushed forward to meet its advance, only too eager to put the foul creature back in its grave.

Lights flashed behind his eyes as something struck the back of his head, sending him careening to the ground, dagger freeing itself of his grip. Tumbling and rolling through the thorns and rough branches, Eragon blinked rapidly, working hard to keep himself conscious. Coming to a stop slumped against a tree, he shook his head and looked up.

The twisted figures of the two Ra'zac stood over him, their black cloaks writhing about in the screeching wind. Thunder howled as another bolt of lightning illuminated their frames.

Rolling backward out of their reach, Eragon leapt to his feet, settling into a combative stance, mind reeling from the occasion. The Ra'zac were still alive! How was that possible?

"I killed you," Eragon said to them, hearing the confusion in his own voice.

"No," said one in a hissing, unwholesome voice. "You killed our brothersss and sssistersss."

"Now you can join them!" Eragon cried, lunging forward to attack. It was a foolish move, he knew, as they were armed and he was not, but it was the best he could hope to do in that moment. Tired as he was, he did not think he could outrun creatures as fast as the Ra'zac.

Still, in his mind, he was accepting this new revelation. The Ra'zac were not extinct, as he'd thought and made sure of with his own hands. _The Lethrblaka must have laid more eggs, he reasoned. _

Coherent thought was lost as the Ra'zac slashed a wickedly curving sword at his head, the image fixed in Eragon's eyes with a sudden burst of lightning. Blinking to clear the etching in his eyes, he ducked under the blade and directed a punch as hard as he could at the Ra'zac's chest, meaning to crack open its twisted carapace.

The blow never landed. Somehow, the Ra'zac had already sidestepped past him, its knobby fist lashing out. Pain exploded on the side of his face as he hard, contorted shell of the creature's arm connected with his cheek, filling his mouth with the salty taste of his own blood.

Crashing to the ground, Eragon recovered quickly and spun about, his leg like a scythe as it took the Ra'zac's feet out from under him. Cursing strangely in its hissing tongue, the creature fell to the ground and rolled away.

_The second Ra'zac!_ Eragon exclaimed silently. He'd forgotten the creature's brother when the Ra'zac had struck him.

Reaching for the magic, he began to use the spell that had blinded the Lethrblaka, knowing no other enchantment was likely to work. "Garjzla le-" he began.

It was too late. A line of fire drew itself across his back as a sword lashed across his shoulder, forcing him to the ground with the sheer weight of the agony. Falling face first to the ground, Eragon screamed, the throaty yell mixing discordantly with the roll of thunder. Blood mingled with the water pouring down his limbs, hot and sticky on the small of his back.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Eragon rolled onto his back and tried to jump to his feet and continue fighting. It was to no avail; the muscles in his back refused to obey his will.

A prickling sensation settled against the base of his throat as one of the Ra'zac pressed the bloody tip of his blade there. "Heal yourssself," it hissed.

Wondering at the sheer fortune of it, Eragon opened his mouth to voice the spell that would blind the creature. Before he could, the steel pressed harder against his skin, silencing him as it drew forth a bead of blood.

"Do not try to trick usss," said the second Ra'zac, coming to stand over him, branches snagged in its cloak. "We know the wordsss that heal you."

Pain battered his consciousness, making Eragon only too glad to comply to the Ra'zac's demands. Reaching for the magic once more, he said. "Waise heill!"

The agony abated as the skin closed over his back. Eragon released a gasp of relief, suddenly aware of the cold sweat mingling with the blood and rainwater soaking his skin.

He glared helplessly at the creatures looming over him, wondering if he could slay one of them before they could stop him.

"Galbatorixsss will be pleased," one said.

Then, it lunged forward and smashed the hilt of its weapon against Eragon's skull. The entire world turned black, blacker even than the night it already was.

As he drifted into unconsciousness, Eragon heard a roll of thunder wash over him, shaking water off the leaves of the forest.


	2. Stumbling Across the Path

_This place,_ thought Arya, sorrow drifting through her, _has known battle…_ The observation would have been lost on a human, and even another elf would not have easily been able to discern the subtle signs with mundane eyes, but to Arya… It was different. With her mind, she could easily feel the anguish of the plants that had been broken and slain by the skirmish, and the vague memories of the animals that had been cowering in their dens only confirmed it. The squirrel hiding in the oak tree, for instance, could remember frightening voices, like the hissing of a snake, and harsh crashing as large bodies moved through the underbrush.

But none of this worried her. What worried her was the fact that, there, in the scene of the conflict, the plants were glorying in their own, slow moving way, for they could remember the touch of a Dragon Rider. Birds flapping idly through the air sung of his passage, and even the small critters chittered in excited joy.

"Here. In the place of battle," Arya said aloud through gritted teeth. A bird in flight chirped in surprise at the sound of her lilting voice, dropping several feet through the air before recovering and flying off in sullen silence, disgruntled by her sudden appearance. Arya did not smile; for once, the juvenile antics and whims of the forest creatures failed to amuse her as it normally did. Only frustration and anger seethed within her, both directed toward Eragon.

_How does he accomplish these things?_ she asked herself. For the first time in decades, she wanted to break something, but restrained herself by holding her arms rigidly at her sides. _How does he always manage to put himself where he will cause the most upheaval? Why does he have to make things so difficult?_

Though she would not admit it, she referred to more than the fact that the boy was always privy to momentous-and typically dangerous-occasions, but also to the little actions he carried out. Such as the blessing he'd given to Elva at Farthen Dur… He always managed to muddle things up in just the right way to infuriate someone, although, admittedly, it was usually her.

_But why?_ she asked herself. _Why and how does he always make me so angry?_ It wasn't that his personality chafed against her own, that they didn't get along, but how he always managed to make mistakes. Not mistakes in simple things, such as misreading a page of text or failing to complete an exercise… Just… Mistakes. Such as his inability to save Brom. His contrary blessing in Farthen Dur. His losses of temper when he was sparring with Vanir in Ellesmera. Now this, his decision to linger behind in Helgrind.

But, in Arya's estimation, Eragon's greatest error was falling love with her.

_Why me?_ she asked angrily. _Out of all the women in Alagaesia, he had to pick me._ It seemed an unfair twist of fate, to be loved by Faolin, have him torn away, and then have this… stripling Dragon Rider thrust upon her. It was utterly ridiculous is what it was. Unlikely. Improbable.

And yet… She couldn't help the flutter of her heart when she thought of him, his warm brown eyes… The rare smile he gave when he was genuinely happy. It was a strange feeling, this flutter. But it had no place in her mind, for even if she could return Eragon's affections, theirs was a doomed love, a thing that could never be.

Anger overwhelmed her confused thoughts, reminding her why she was here. That is, Eragon's thoughtless decision to linger within the empire. _How could he risk everything like this?_ she thought. _Does he not realize how important he is? How crippling his death will be?_

Angry tears burned in her eyes, a phenomenon she neither enjoyed nor understood. As a warm, fledgling tear rolled down her face, she jumped in surprise, her hand rising to her face. Quick as a flash, she caught the errant speck of water on the tip of her finger, bringing it before one, slanted green eye. Astonishment whirled through her as she beheld the inconsequential iota of salty water, the fading sunlight burning in its miniscule core. Tears had not streamed down her face in some time, not in decades…

_No,_ she remembered. She had cried when Faolin had died, but not for decades before that… Dry-yet angry-amusement filled her when she realized that she had shed more tears in the last year than the century before, for she had come remarkably close to weeping over the past several months.

A beam of sunlight broke upon her face then, wholesome and warm as it shone through the branches, illuminating the motes of dust and debris floating through the air. She jumped at the warm caress, surprised that the sun had sunk so low.

_I have been standing her for some time now,_ she thought furiously, angry with herself now. Rebuking herself for allowing her thoughts to wander, she started forward, a new anger filling her when she remembered the whole reason for this escapade; Eragon's meanderings.

It was an effort then, to remain calm, but Arya had over a hundred years of experience to draw from, so, gradually, she was able to loosen her muscles enough to move about without fear of destroying something. Casting her mind out as she examined the vicinity with her ordinary senses, she searched for further signs of what had become of the battle, putting her own thoughts and feelings into an area of her mind where they could be ignored. They were irrelevant to her task.

It was a thick forest in which she dwelt, lush with thickly leafed trees and an overgrowth of foliage. All was wet from the night before, only enhancing the natural beauty of the place as the golden sunlight glistened off the moisture, turning each leaf into a shard of silver, gold, or some other precious metal. Under different circumstances, she may have stopped to admire the scene, but time was not a friendly thing, and she had scarce enough of it anyway.

It was not long before she found the heart of clash, the place where the climax had played itself out. Bushes, grass, ferns, and other such plants were splintered and squashed to the moist ground, indicating that the ones involved had struck the ground on repeated occasions.

Crouching down and sweeping her black hair behind the points of her ears, she tentatively touched a cluster of needles on a half crushed juniper bush, delicately running the tips of her fingers over the plant. Something about the plant called to her, though it wasn't its physical presence, it was as if the mind of the bush was attempting to communicate something to her. With a brush of her thoughts, she examined the consciousness of the plant, but was unable to interpret its thoughts correctly. They were a jumble of confused feelings, myriad impressions that she could make neither heads nor tails of.

Arching her eyebrows, she plunged her hands further into the needles, prompted by a feeling she did not understand. She froze when she felt a thick, sticky liquid coat her fingers. Withdrawing her hand, she saw that her fingers were coated in blood.

Dumbfounded, she stared at the juniper bush, trying to reason out this spectacle. Somehow, the blood had not washed away with the rain, but had remained, hidden within this bush as if the plant had preserved that evidence just so that she would find it. It definitely proved that this place had been one of battle.

Arya glanced apprehensively down at the blood on her fingers, suspicions forming in her head, each one more unlikely than the next, but all with a single thing in common. Uttering words in the ancient language, she confirmed it.

The blood was Eragon's.

"Eragon!" she exclaimed, unable to help herself. _No!_ She began to hyperventilate, waves of panic, fear, hopelessness, horror, and-unmistakably-loss coursing through her. In a state of shock, tears overflowed in her eyes and streamed down her face, matting her black hair to her cheeks, trapping a strand in the corner of her mouth. The world turned blurry, and she stumbled into a tree, which she leaned against gladly, welcoming its support.

With a trembling hand, she reached up and touched her own face, staring at the tears that collected on it when she took it away. Sunlight reflected off the watery sheen, nearly blinding her with its brilliance, acting much like a ray of reason into her mind.

_Calm down, Arya,_ she told herself repeatedly, a habit she had thought she'd eliminated some two decades before. By force of will, she forced her tears to slow until they ran no more, at which she leaned down and put her hands on her head, breathing slowly.

_None would have killed him,_ she reasoned. _Any with cause to hunt him either means him no harm or would have taken him alive…_ The thought that Eragon had been captured was not particularly comforting to her, for she knew that Eragon would rather die than be taken to Galbatorix and forced to serve him, as Murtagh had.

A hard ball of determination formed within Arya when she reached this conclusion. She now knew that she had a chance, however slim, to rescue Eragon, at least until he was taken to the king… However, that chance would be dictated almost entirely by whom had captured him.

Forcing her back erect, Arya glided forward, searching for signs of what had happened to Eragon once he'd been disabled. She was not an experienced hunter, as her diet was devoid of meat, but it did not take her long to find the heavy footprints leading away from the scene. Confident that she could follow, she straightened, eyes traveling along the path as it faded into the distance. Whoever had captured Eragon-she was sure it had not been Murtagh or Thorn, for they would have flown away-had not taken particular care to hide their trail.

With a spoken word, she gathered a handful of water in her palm from the leaves around her. The surface of the gently rippling water in her hand smoothed over at her command, becoming perfect and reflective as a mirror before Nasuada's face appeared within it.

"Arya!" the girl exclaimed, her eyes widening, the whites in stark contrast with her dark skin.

"Nasuada," Arya answered, keeping her voice steady.

"What's wrong?" Nasuada's eyes narrowed, and Arya could tell that she was looking around in the surface of the mirror for any hint that Eragon was with her. "Has something happened? Did you find Eragon?"

"That," Arya said slowly, "Is the reason for this conversation. The news bears ill."

Nasuada's face tightened. "Continue."

"Eragon has been captured."

"No!" Nasuada cried, her face moving as if she'd leapt to her feet. "How? By who? Wha-" She fell silent as Arya held up her hand.

"I do not know how nor whom. But I am certain that Murtagh and Thorn were not involved."

"Not yet," Nasuada said flatly, voicing the same thought in Arya's mind.

"Not as of yet," Arya agreed.

"How did you come by this information?"

Arya hesitated. "I discovered the place where he was taken." She held up her blood-covered hand. "This... This is Eragon's blood."

Nasuada seemed to draw into herself, looking perilously close to tears. "How do you know he's alive?"

Arya grimaced inside, showing nothing on her face. "I don't. I would assume that, were Eragon dead, Saphira would have made you well aware."

"She had an… episode last night, but nothing more," Nasuada said. "I would assume she suffered the pain of whatever drew Eragon's blood."

"That would be my conclusion."

Nasuada sighed heavily, leaning back into her chair. She examined Arya with guarded eyes before saying, "Are you well, Arya? You look as if-"

"I am fine," Arya snapped, impatient. "I can pursue his capturers. I found their trail."

Nasuada shook her head. "Absolutely not. I forbid it."

"Do you care nothing for him?" Arya snarled, furious. "You would give him up that-"

"No, of course not," Nasuada said, looking offended. "Of course I care for him. I want him back… But we have to examine this reasonably. Eragon will be under all sorts of security, both magical and ordinary. Not only that, but he's likely going to be retrieved by Murtagh in short order, and I doubt you could contend with him… Could you?"

"No," Arya said carefully.

"Exactly. We have to wait until we know more. Then we can attempt to rescue him, but even then I doubt it would be possible… Without him, Arya, we can't afford to lose you. You're too valuable. Eragon is strong… He can hold out for a while."

"He's not that strong," Arya disagreed. "No one can resist Galbatorix for long. He's too valuable to lose. I am going to attempt to rescue him."

"_No,_ Arya! I forbid it."

"You have no power over me."

Nasuada winced. "You're right. I do not. But, as a friend, I at least urge you to contact Izlanzadi. Seek her counsel, then make your decision."

Arya bowed her head. "I will do as you ask, though every minute is pressed against us."

"That is all I-" Nasuada was cut off as Arya terminated the spell.

In a twinkling, Arya brought her mother's face to the surface of the flat water.

"Arya, my daughter," Izlanzadi greeted in the ancient language, smiling.

"Mother," Arya replied in kind, though her expression remained still as stone.

Izlanzadi frowned at her cool voice, examining Arya's face closely. "Are you well, daughter? You look as if you have been… weeping."

Arya inwardly grimaced, working her mind to avoid the truth. "It is sodden in this forest. I ran through many wet leaves."

"Yes, but are you well?"

"Not so well as I would like."

Izlanzadi stiffened. "What has happened, Arya?"

Quickly as she could, Arya explained Eragon's predicament, her own desire to attempt to rescue the young Dragon Rider, and Nasuada's counsel. There was silence for a moment when she was finished.

"Are you sure he was captured?" Izlanzadi asked, deadly serious.

"I am certain."

"How is it you know he is still alive?"

"Nasuada would have known based on Saphira's reaction to the event."

Izlanzadi bowed her head. "True." Silence reigned for another minute. "Nasuada is right."

Arya stiffened. "You will not allow me to pursue him. To rescue Eragon."

"We can't, Arya," her mother said, looking stressed. "There is almost no doubt that he is already beyond your reach. In any case, even if he weren't, how do expect to overcome his capturers if they overpowered _him_?"

"Alone, he is not so strong as I," Arya argued.

"So you say. But we have no way of knowing for sure." Izlanzadi raised her head. "I agree with Nasuada, however. I order you to stand down and return to the Varden. You may take Eragon's place in battle until we recover him."

"He is not an _item,_ Mother," Arya growled, nearly trembling with rage.

Izlanzadi acknowledged the statement with a jerk of her head. "Will you follow my orders?"

"I will consider it," Arya said, careful not to commit herself to an oath in the language in which they spoke.

Her mother's eyes narrowed. "You _will_ follow my orders."

"I will consider it," Arya repeated, anger seeping into her voice.

Izlanzadi stared at her for a long moment. "I cannot lose you again, Arya," she said quietly. "You survived captivity… I am sure Eragon can do the same."

"Perhaps."

Izlanzadi glared at her. "Farewell, daughter. Think about what I have said. Please, return to the Varden."

"Farewell, Mother."

Izlanzadi's face was sad before it vanished, leaving clear, rippling water in Arya's hand, through which she could see the pale skin of her palm. She allowed the water to trickle through her fingers, considering what both Nasuada and her mother had told her.

When the last drop struck the already moistened ground, she looked up, following the trail with her eyes as it faded into the distance. Conflicted, she looked north to where her mother was, then south to Nasuada, and then along the path to Eragon once more.

Near hissing in frustration, she followed the path.


	3. Revenge of the Ra'zac

An aching, throbbing pain awoke Eragon, filling his head with what felt to be red-hot embers. Groaning, he opened his eyes, noting that iron chains bound his hands and feet and that there was a moldy tasting rag in his mouth, effectively gagging him.

His eyes beheld a gloomy darkness, though he could see well enough to tell that he was in a small-and wet-cave. Grimacing in pain, he rolled over to look around. Dried blood cracked on his back as he shifted, and it was only after a moment that he remembered that his wound had already been healed.

The new view he had on the scene confirmed his theory that the cave was, in fact, small. Actually, it was quite diminutive; he doubted that more than two men could have fit comfortably within, for the entrance to the small fissure was scarcely more than five feet from his face. Rich, golden sunlight streamed in through the opening, the angle of the sunbeams indicating to Eragon that it was about noon.

Blinking in confusion, he took in his surroundings and situation, trying to remember why he was here and what had happened. His befuddled, disoriented mind grappled with the perplexity unsuccessfully for several minutes, the throbbing pain in his skull making it quite difficult to focus.

"Ra'zac!" he cried suddenly against the gag.

In a flash of remembrance, he sat bolt upright, which was a mistake, all things considered. A blinding pain behind his eyelids forced him back to the ground, the agony accented by the cramping of his stiff, over-sore muscles. He gasped involuntarily, slumping down on the stone.

Darkness blocked the sunlight streaming into the cave, a lumpy shadow falling across Eragon. Looking up with smarting eyes, Eragon beheld one of the new Ra'zac, the creature's deformed shape looking almost humorous, outlined as it was by the golden light of day.

"He'sss awake," it hissed, sidling into the cave and settling its cloaked body into a dark corner.

"Good…" said the second, edging in after its brother.

"Let usss burn him," the first said starting forward with a wicked looking dagger.

Eragon watched its approach with something close to panic, trying to focus his mind in order to work silent magic. The endeavor was dangerous enough as it was, and the violent throbbing and pain assaulting his consciousness was making it quite difficult. He couldn't risk it yet…

The second Ra'zac thrust forward a contorted arm, stopping its brother-or sister, Eragon could not tell which-in its tracks. "We cannot kill him," it said. "Galbatorixsss wantsss him alive."

"He killed our family!" it retorted angrily, or so Eragon guessed. Their unfamiliar tongues made it difficult to interpret emotions. "He shall pay!"

"No," hissed the second. "We don't have to kill him…"

Both Ra'zac froze and began to talk to one another in a rapid, clicking language that Eragon did not understand. Their warbling voices rose and lowered so quickly that it hurt his ears, and the horrid sound echoed in the confined space, leaving each individual hiss resounding the cave long after the sound had initially been made. It grated on Eragon's ears, spiking the intense headache forming low in his skull. He wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball and hold his head in his hands.

_Magic,_ he thought desperately. _I can use magic…_

In an act of desperation, he attempted to focus his mind as the Ra'zac continued to argue in their own language, meaning to use magic once the pain abated long enough for him to use it silently without fear of disruptive stray thoughts.

_Heill, letta!_ he cried in his mind, meaning to stop the throbbing by healing the damage done to him. The drop in his strength was considerable as the magic took its toll.

But it was worth it, for the pain stopped, his muscles loosened, and his body once again felt to be in fine condition. Relieved, he shook his head, freeing himself of the last lingering affects of the headache.

Focusing on the Ra'zac, he brought the full might of his magic to bear, gathering the words in his mind to cast the spell that would free him. Silence echoed in the cave as he brought the proper phrasing to the fore of his mind.

_Garjzla brisingr un jierda-_

The spell shattered in his mind as a hard boot connected with the side of his skull, the magic bubbling within him fading back behind the barrier. Lights exploded in his mind like dark rainbows rent from end to end, spraying sparks of all different colors across Eragon's field of vision and blinding him. Pain and throbbing reclaimed their places in Eragon's head, a large lump forming at the base of his skull where the boot had struck him, oozing blood.

Dark shadows loomed through the lights in his eyes, the unmistakable shape of the cloaked Ra'zac. "We won't kill you," one said.

"But we can make you feel painsss…."

The last vestiges of sunlight in the grotto faded away as something was draped over the entrance, plunging all into shadow. Before the sparks cleared from his vision and his eyes could adjust, there was the unmistakable rasp of a blade being pulled from its sheath.

Panic and fear blossomed within Eragon's chest as he stared out into the darkness, the lights fading from his eyes. A knobby fist seized the hank of his hair and shook his head sharply from side to side, igniting the sparks once more. Blood spurted from his nose and lip as a hard, contorted fist slammed into his face again and again.

_Arya,_ he thought, the pain lessening at the thought of her. _Arya suffered through this, so can you. Do it for her, for Saphira, for-_ Further thought was cut off as the point of a dagger cut through the front of his shirt and skin, exposing his chest to the cool, moist air and tracing a line of fire across his stomach. Shelled fists struck his face repeatedly when he tried to sit up in response, trailing gobbets of blood each time they withdrew.

Eragon knew that this was far from over. The Ra'zac were going to take hours to exact what they thought to be a fine revenge… Fortune would smile upon him if he survived, despite the Ra'zac's orders to keep him alive. Even magic was beyond his reach, for he couldn't focus his mind enough to use it without being almost certain of destroying himself. His only option was to endure, and an ugly alternative it was.

Drawing forth rivers of blood, the knife danced across his skin, tracing horrid designs over his chest and arms. His back arched upward in agony, his screams muffled by the gag. Nearly biting off his tongue, he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, beginning to writhe as the creatures poured some strange liquid into his wounds. The incisions burned as if on fire where they did this, as if they had poured liquid flames into his flesh.

"He ssscreams already?" one of the Ra'zac said, making a peculiar hissing sound that Eragon could only assume was laughter. "We've only jussst begun…"

Eragon screamed once more in his pain, the distant roar of a dragon echoing in the confines of his mind.


	4. Meeting of Minds

_This is detestable,_ Arya thought, making her way through the rotted, festering marsh, only barely able to keep her typically sure footing in the moist slush that was the ground. Mosquitoes, flies, and other such pests buzzed through the air around her, barred from her flesh only by a simple ward. The vermin had been quite a nuisance before she had thought to cast the shield, and numerous bug bites marred her smooth skin from the lapse in her attentions. At least, they had, until Arya had removed them with a distracted word.

Setting aside the irritant of the bothersome insects, she was still quite uncomfortable. Mud was splattered over her once polished boots and clean clothing, hardening into layers of muck around her limbs and torso. Small branches, loose leaves, and other such debris clung to her hair, only assisted by the film of sweat that caused her clothing and hair to adhere to her skin. The heat was abominable.

Ignoring her own discomfort, the elf continued on, wading through the mucky water and running with lithe grace over the muddy knolls. Occasionally, a leech attempted to make her its unwitting host, only to be repelled by a new ward that Arya placed around herself.

"Please, let this be the day…" she said, not entirely sure whom it was she was addressing. If it was herself, it was a habit she disliked and would rid herself of presently. If it was some spoken plea to the gods presiding over Alagaesia-if there was such a thing-then it was the first time she had ever prayed. Neither possibility appealed to her. Even so, in that moment, she did not particularly care, for she was growing increasingly worried and apprehensive of Eragon's condition, not to mention weary of the chase. It was the third day since she'd discovered the young Dragon Rider's capture, and she was now several leagues north of Melian, traversing the thick swampland of the area. She could think of no reason why Eragon's captors would bring him here… But that didn't matter.

The trail within the marshes was incredibly difficult to find, so undetectable that a hunter of her limited skill had no chance of finding it, which was an irritation in itself. Thankfully, while it may not be entirely the right path, Arya knew she was going in right direction, for the plants and animals all sang of Eragon's passage, glorying in the touch of the Dragon Rider. It was almost obnoxious, their praise, nearly as irritating as the elves praise of dragons, which is to say that it was understandable at first, but trying over time.

_I talk as if I weren't one,_ she mused, a hint of sadness sinking through her as she thought of when she'd said that very thing to Eragon, and then, later, he had repeated it back to her. A small sigh stole from her, causing her to jump in surprise until she discovered its origins: contentment, happiness, and longing, all at the thought of Eragon.

_No, Arya,_ she told herself, scolding, dismayed by the feelings. It was not proper to feel so, wasn't right… After all, didn't she owe some loyalty to Faolin? Or was that void, for her past love was now a corpse? _No… He would have wanted me to be happy…_ But was Eragon what she wanted? What she needed to be happy? The puzzle was so complicated that it made her head hurt.

Even if she _did_ want Eragon-which she was sure she didn't-she could not return his feelings, for it would distract from what he needed to do. It would unmake all that they had worked for. If she returned his feelings for her, all would be lost, for he would throw everything away to ensure her safety, and-knowing him-would likely do it at the most inopportune moment. And she had already pushed him away, warned the Dragon Rider on multiple occasions that they could not be, that they could never be. It was impossible. As she'd thought some days before, theirs was a doomed love, if it had ever been love.

Several warm droplets trickled down her fair cheeks when she finally reached this conclusion, for she had just splashed into a pool of stagnant, murky water. At least that's what she told herself, convinced that they were not tears. There was no excuse, however, for the depression within her.

Scowling in frustrated confusion, she stepped up onto the opposite bank, seizing a gnarled root to haul herself up onto the semi-dry land.

_Arya?_

Exclaiming with a startled cry, she lost her grip on the slick root and fell backward into the mucky water, submerging herself in the dark, mud-filled pool. Her wards turned the persistent leeches away as they once again made a beeline for her flesh. Kicking off the muddy bottom of the pool, she remerged onto land, spewing the fetid water from her mouth as she hauled herself out of the water, surprising herself as she indulged in a few vague profanities. She was even more surprised by the thought that had touched her mind, for it was not her own.

_Eragon?_ she answered, astonished. Blinking in surprise, she pulled herself further onto dry land, settling down on a high, knobby tree root while she met Eragon's mind. Relief rushed through with a sigh; until that moment, she had not been entirely sure that the Dragon Rider had still been alive.

Her relief was quickly quelled by the horror and grief she felt for Eragon as she met with his mind more fully, feeling the pain within him that made his thoughts scattered and opaque, difficult to read. He was completely delirious, more in a state of dreams than one of consciousness. She was not, however, able to recognize the origins of his pain.

_Arya!_ he thought again, projecting the name like a joyful shout. A wash of warm, fuzzy emotions overflowed from him into her, resonating with something deep inside her. A giddy happiness flowed out of him, mixed with a host of contented emotions so powerful, numerous, and hazy that she could not determine what they were.

Worst of all, however, was the feeling of love that poured from his every thought.

Worse was how much she found she wanted to respond in kind.

_Yes, Eragon, it…_ she trailed off, losing track of what she wished to say, and not entirely sure what she was to say anyway. Arya found herself frozen by emotion, rage overwhelming her relief of finding Eragon alive. Now she could question his reasons for lingering in the Empire, now she could be furious at him and be completely justified. Such was her responsibility, was it not?

_Arya…_ Eragon repeated softly, a dreamy sigh drifting through his being. His mind swelled toward her, caressing her own consciousness with what could only be interpreted as the mental equivalent of a kiss.

At first, Arya's anger melted away, her heart thudding hard within her chest as Eragon embraced her, sending her aflutter with an array of strange feelings she knew that she should not feel.

And then she was affronted.

_Eragon!_ she shouted furiously, insulted by his ease of intimacy. Shoving his mind away, she lanced out with a sharp jab of her own. Eragon's mind staggered back, reeling, before he slowly returned, contrite and apologetic. His consciousness was still fuzzy with pain, but more lucid than before, a soft, sad music echoing through the confines of his mind.

_I apologize, Arya Svit-Kona…_ It was heavily apparent that the Dragon Rider had been more asleep than awake before, but now he was fully aware. _I was not myself. I am… Distracted. _

_Apology accepted,_ she answered, a brief irritation flashing through at the fact that she had to be so formal with him.

_What are you doing here?_ he asked tiredly.

_Looking for you._

_You should not have come. I am fine and capable of tending myself. _The tone of his mental voice was flat, almost uncaring.

Anger burned in Arya, an anger directed at everything Eragon was. Did he no longer wish her to be around? _Do not lie to me, Eragon… It ill suits you and will gain you no favor from me. _

Eragon laughed through his pain then, amusement rolling through his mind. Arya was suddenly irritated that he could find humor in the situation. Eragon's laughter was suddenly quelled by a series of melancholy thoughts and impressions that she barely caught a glimpse of. In a bitter voice, Eragon said, _No, but it doesn't seem to matter how much favor I gain with you, does it?_

Arya didn't answer, a lump forming in her throat.

Regret flowed from him to her. _I am sorry, Arya,_ he said. _I did not mean to trouble you… _

_It is of no consequence,_Arya answered, glad in that moment that they were not speaking in the ancient language. In her mind, she hid her own feelings, sorry that she was causing him pain. _Eragon, what happened to you? I discovered evidence that indicated your capture, and your mind is filled with pain… Where are you?_

_I-_ Eragon began, suddenly retreating from her mind. When he returned a moment later, a new pain was throbbing through him. In a weary, stressed voice, he said, _You're correct… I've been captured._ Another series of images flashed through his mind, though not of his conscious doing.

_You have been tortured,_ Arya said, horrified, as she interpreted the images.

Eragon winced inwardly. _Yes,_ he said, retreating from her somewhat. She could tell that he was hiding things in his mind from her. Arya felt grief and sorrow fill her when she realized what Eragon had already been through.

_Are you alright?_ she asked anxiously.

Eragon laughed again. Arya blushed when she realized how foolish the question sounded. _I am better than I could be-which is dead-but that is little comfort, considering what is awaiting me._

Arya abandoned that line of conversation, fully aware that it would only deepen both their pain. _Where are you?_

She felt Eragon peruse their surroundings before answering, _A thousand feet north of you, on the edge of the marshes._ Another surge of pain shot through him, making Arya cry out in sympathy. Eragon did not answer it.

_Who has captured you?_ she pressed.

His answer was long in coming. _Ra'zac… There are two more Ra'zac. Maybe more. I don't know._

Arya suppressed her own surprise and horror for a time when she could do something with it. _I am coming after you. Hold on._

The burst of passion that exploded from him was so unexpected, so powerful, that she could do nothing but flinch in surprise. _No, Arya!_

Arya hesitated. _Why not?_

_Because I am already lost. There is nothing you can do. I… I won't have you captured or killed for my sake. _

Arya hissed in frustration. _That is what my mother said…_

_Your mother said that?_ Eragon asked, surprised.

_It matters little. I am coming._

_No!_ Eragon cried, a burst of pain rushing through him. _Don't… Look._ He pressed frantically against her mind, seeking permission to show her his deeper thoughts. Out of habit, she resisted for a moment before succumbing.

_A huge, leathery skinned creature reared up in front of her, its bulbous black eyes glaring hatefully out at the world that so resented it. Its hide was a gray color, hairless and naked, like the skin of a human in cold death. From its sides protruded enormous bat-like wings, and from its head lanced a long, sharp beak. Arya's eyes smarted as a putrid, rancid odor met her nostrils, so full of horrible aromas that she automatically blocked it out._

The terrible image remained etched into Arya's mind as it faded away, leaving a horrible impression on her soul.

Eragon's mind gently touched hers. Softly, he said, _The Lethrblaka… There are more of them as well. Two have just arrived… You cannot help me._

Determination hardened Arya's back into a band of steel. _Nevertheless, I come._

_Arya,_ Eragon growled, shoving her away with his mind. _Flee. You will only be killed._

_You're lack of confidence is astounding,_ Arya said calmly, standing up and sprinting in Eragon's direction, recklessly throwing herself over the stagnant pools and flying through the soft mud.

Eragon didn't laugh. _Please, Arya… For me._ His voice was desperate, pain wracked.

Before she could stop herself, she answered in the ancient language, _It is for you that I do this. _

Eragon froze, his mind uncomprehending. _You're too late,_ he said after a moment, sounding satisfied. _We're already in the air._ Then, an errant, insignificant thought floated from him to her, a curse followed by, _Blazes, this is different than riding Saphira!_

Arya was too distressed to laugh. With a broken sob, she threw herself against Eragon's barriers, shattering them to pieces like a rock shatters glass and searching his surface thoughts for hints of where he might be going. With a silent-yet savage-growl, he fought back against her, attempting to push her away. To his surprise, he was unsuccessful; he may have been the stronger fighter, but her mind was stronger than his own.

Still, his struggles kept her distracted and unable to absorb much of what was going on around him, such as what he saw through his eyes. To her relief, however, she distinctly heard the word "Helgrind" through his ears.

Snarling in fury, he wrenched her from his thoughts and shoved her away. _Don't you dare,_ he growled, unable in their meeting of minds to hide the flow protectiveness and love he felt for her. _Stay away, Arya._

Arya didn't answer, but slowly withdrew from his mind so she could sob without his awareness. She had failed… It was going to be nigh impossible to rescue Eragon now. Still, she would try. What else would she do? Her life was tied to his in so many ways, many of which she didn't like…

Gasping in her weeping, she emerged in a full sprint from the edge of the marsh, spraying mud into the air around her. Warm and comforting, the light of the sun gently touched her filthy face. Tears carved ravines down the mud matted to her cheeks.

Looking up blearily with tear filled eyes, she saw two massive, gray-skinned creatures fade into the northern horizon, dark shapes huddled between their translucent wings.


	5. In the Darkness of Helgrind

_She's going to come after me anyway,_ Eragon thought hopelessly, wishing Arya would stay away as he shifted in his bonds on the Lethrblaka's back. Staring uselessly into his blindfold, he twisted, stomach lurching dangerously as the creature he rode turned in an unfamiliar way.

In a small, petty way, he was almost glad that Arya was coming after him. After all, such a thing would indicate that she had _some_ feelings for him, didn't it?

_Of course not,_he reminded himself. _She's not coming after me because she feels something for me… She's coming after me because, I'm the only hope she and all the other elves have. Who else will confront Galbatorix?_ He snorted. _Certainly not Vanir._

No small amount of bitterness accompanied the conclusion of his reasoning.

_At times, I hate Oromis for teaching me to think logically,_ Eragon mused, feeling like he was drowning in his own despair. The list of his own failings and miseries seemed endless… _I could never earn Arya's love... Garrow dead, farm destroyed, Carvahall burned,_ he listed, his agitation growing. _Brom slain, Murtagh enslaved, Hrothgar killed!_ His rage growing, Eragon struggled against the chains on his wrists, receiving a sharp jab in the side from a knobby fist. _Me the son of_ Morzan!

_And I've even been captured by some that I should have easily been able to handle. Creatures I thought I'd exterminated!_ He growled low in his throat, wincing as the steady wind pushed his clothing against the many wounds in his flesh. _Can I do nothing properly?_ In an effort of will, he set the pain in a part of his mind where he could ignore it, at least for a time.

_And now Arya is coming after me… And she'll be killed._ Despair washed anew through him, mingling with heartache and loneliness. Out of habit, he reached out for Saphira with his mind, only to feel nothing. His loneliness peaked.

Slumping in his chains, he thought, _I can't even use magic up here… For starters, I can't see anything. I'm also at least a thousand feet above the ground, so if I do something, I'll probably fall to my death._

_I'd say that I've survived worse, but I'm not sure._

Uncomfortable, he shifted again, manacles chafing against his wrists and drawing forth a fresh well of blood. Several new cuts opened on Eragon's face as one of the Ra'zac backhanded him.

"Ssstop ssstruggling," it hissed as Eragon spat a tooth over what he thought to be the side of the creature. "You'll fall, and Galbatorixsss wants you alive."

"You haven't seemed worried about that the last couple nights," Eragon retorted, his cheek already swelling. The vivid, agonized memories of the last several days swam before his eyes, the scenes of his frequent torture at the hands of these foul beings.

The Ra'zac laughed. "You wouldn't die from thossse… exsssperimentsss. Don't worry… There isss more awaiting you in Helgrind. And thisss time… we will have the proper _equipment_." It laughed again as Eragon's face twisted in horror, dread filling him. He was to survive a worse torture?

"You… _should_ sssurvive it." It laughed again-enjoying tormenting him, Eragon supposed-and said, "Now, sssleep…"

Something heavy collided with Eragon's head, and he slumped forward in his bindings, the darkness of the blindfold deepening.

But he didn't sleep. Having no desire to make the Ra'zac aware of the fact that he was awake and be struck again, Eragon pretended to be asleep, listening to the beating of his own heart and the malevolent one of the Lethrblaka beneath him. They rose and fell as the monster beat its leathery wings in the air, propelling them always forward toward the black fortress of Helgrind.

For a time-exhausted as he was-Eragon did sleep, or at least slept as well as an elf could, drifting across the endless landscape of his waking dreams. It was in these that Eragon made his escape, pretending-for the brief time available-that none of these terrible things had happened, that he was laughing with Garrow and Roran in their kitchen at Carvahall or flying through crystal-clear blue skies on Saphira's back. In his dreams, Eragon was a god, bending his world to his whims, mastering all that opposed him and suppressing his own pain, drowning both the physical and emotional agony in a flood of invented contentment. For the first time since he'd been changed, he slept a sleep where he was unaware of his surroundings, drifting always deeper into the happiness of his dreams as his body rested and began to repair itself.

Of course, the majority of these dreams contained Arya.

Of course.

Abruptly, the dreams ended as Eragon was thrown from the Lethrblaka's back onto hard, cold stone. With a gasp, Eragon rolled over, his chains clinking against the stone floor. Surprised as he was, he was unable to block out the pain of the injuries he'd suffered since his capture, and it all came rushing back. Urgent, myriad messages of agony-sent from all parts of his body-screamed into his brain, bringing each, individual wound into painful clarity. His torso, arms, and legs were covered with deep gashes, only just beginning to heal. Several bones in his fingers were broken, along with at least one rib. Bruises covered nearly every inch of his skin, particularly his face, which was matted with a mask of half dried blood, swollen and hot. Thankfully, most of his teeth were still rooted firmly within in his mouth, and those that weren't were molars.

His eyes watered as he processed the pain, fresh blood coating his torso as the half-formed scabs cracked open with his impact on the ground. Grunting in pain, he attempted to haul himself up on hands and knees. The toe of a hard boot connected with his side, flipping him over painfully onto his back as another rib snapped. Inhaling sharply, Eragon screamed.

The cry echoed through the cavern long after Eragon had ceased. When it faded away, the Ra'zac were laughing, adding their own horrible hissing to the eerie echoes.

"Take off the blindfold," one of the Ra'zac said suddenly with a laugh. "I like to sssee his face."

Hard, shell-covered fingers prodded Eragon's eyes harshly as they wrapped around the blindfold, tugging it forcefully from his head. Eragon's head snapped back into the floor when it came free. Purple lights swam across his vision, partially obscuring the cave.

_Helgrind,_ Eragon thought, panicking as he remembered the Ra'zac's promise. _Gods help me, I'm back in Helgrind…_

The entrance to the fortress was much as it had been before; dismal, eerie, and bare. Orange sunlight-indicating it to be twilight-shone through the entrance, rippling across the illusion covering the gap like light shining through to the bottom of a stream, wrinkling and shifting.

"He ssseesss sssunlight," one of the Ra'zac mocked. "We can't have that…"

All four of the foul creatures laughed, the Lethrblakas' rumbling in a cackling, unwholesome way, echoing back from the dark caverns beyond the room. Eragon's scalp prickled as he shivered, apprehension for what was to come making him near blind with panic.

Seizing his arms, the Ra'zac dragged him from the room into the halls ahead, laughing as Eragon groaned in pain, the rough stone tearing open the wounds on his back and the darkness blinding his eyes. It wasn't in him to struggle; his mind was scattered and fuzzy, and the Lethrblaka walked alongside him, perfectly capable of ripping out his heart with long beaks.

_Then again,_ Eragon though. _Maybe I _should_ struggle… Death is better than serving Galbatorix, and I wouldn't have to suffer through this pain…_

Just as he was considering doing just this, he felt the air change around him, becoming staler and stuffier, indicating that they had come to another room. It smelled of blood and death. Fear fluttered through Eragon as he darted his eyes everywhere he could look, met only with darkness.

Hard, knobby fists once again grasped his arms-this time at the elbows-and pulled him forward, causing Eragon's broken ribs to twinge with pain. He cried out in agony as his arms were hoisted above his head and his chains looped over something in the ceiling, leaving him dangling above the ground with only his toes touching the floor.

Sparks illuminated the space as a fire was lit in the corner, showing the room for what it was: a torture chamber. Cold sweat broke out on Eragon's limbs as he beheld the scene; tables were pushed up against the walls, multitudes of cruel looking tools-their purpose apparent-strewn across them. Off to the left, the twisted shadows of the two Ra'zac were hunched over a pit in the floor, feeding a growing fire and filling the room with its harsh crackling. The huge shadows of the Lethrblaka hulked behind them.

Looking down, Eragon saw that the tips of his feet were resting against a bowl set into the floor. Considering where he was and the malicious nature of the room, he could only assume that its purpose was to catch the blood that was no doubt going to be pouring from his body soon. A steady drip of the crimson liquid was already dropping into it from his back.

One of the Ra'zac were standing before him when he looked up, the red-orange light of the fire reflecting off its globular eyes in the depths of its cloak. It stared at him for a moment before sinking down to its knees and dipping its finger into the blood already pooling in the bowl. With something like a purr, it plunged the finger into its hood.

There was silence.

"You tassste very nicssse," it hissed, standing back up. "We will ssspill much of your blood, yesss…"

Eragon shuddered.

"Have you reopened the wound?" asked the second Ra'zac, stoking the fire into a roaring blaze. "We can't have the dragon finding usss…"

"Ah, yesss…" said the first, drawing its dagger once more and circling around Eragon's back. Eragon-aware of what was about to happen-braced himself, clamping his teeth tightly shut, determined not to give the Ra'zac the satisfaction of hearing him scream so soon.

It was for naught.

Twice the dagger bit into his back, grating deeply against his shoulder blades, both times inciting a scream of bitter agony from him. In the back of his mind, he heard Saphira respond in kind. _She can't fly…_ Eragon thought, panting. _As long as they keep doing that, Saphira won't be able to fly… her wings will be too pained._

Both the Ra'zac and the Lethrblaka were laughing when his cries faded away. Eragon tried to stand up straight on his toes in an attempt to alleviate the crippling pain in his shoulders, which was made all the worse because of the position in which his arms were chained. Despite his pain, he shuddered, skin crawling when he felt the Ra'zac press its beak against his wounds, its tongue flicking against his skin as it lapped at the blood pouring down his back.

The second Ra'zac stood, a glowing rod of iron clenched in its contorted fist. Eragon shivered in apprehensive anticipation as it slowly approached, waving the branding iron in small circles at its side in an ominous fashion.

"We have all night," it hissed.

"Murtagh will not be here until noon tomorrow," said the other.

The Lethrblaka laughed.

Hopelessness and despair threatened to thieve away Eragon's sanity as they said this. Not only was he to be tortured, but his half _brother_ was to be taking him to worst enemy in the morrow, at the hands of whom he would no doubt suffer more torture until Eragon agreed to serve him.

_I can't, I _won't_ betray them!_ Eragon thought, thinking of the Varden, Saphira, and everyone else who was counting on him. He shifted, raising his chin as the Ra'zac approached, thinking, _I can survive this. I _must_ survive this. I will escape and return to them, to Saphira and Arya…_ He squared his shoulders much as he could, ignoring the pain of his back, thinking of Saphira and Arya-the two huntresses for whom he harbored such love-to protect his sanity. He had to escape, if for no one else but them.

But escape was impossible in that moment.

The Ra'zac took the final step forward and brought the iron to his chest, filling Eragon's nostrils with the scent of cooking meat, his head with the horrible pain. Throwing his head back, Eragon gritted his teeth, but somehow prevented himself from screaming.

Hissing laughter echoed off the walls once more. "Ssso… The Dragon Rider hasss learned sssomething, yesss?" it said, laughing more. "Good…" With another laugh, it began twisting the red hot metal across the many incisions on Eragon's chest. Eragon held the scream in his throat. "It will make thisss ssso much more… _Interesssting."_

Eragon held his tongue for a moment more as they continued on, employing methods of torture he had never even heard of. Even so, after a time, his will broke and he loosed agonized screams into the darkness of Helgrind, filling the fortress with wailing echoes that mingled with the delighted, hissing laughter of the Ra'zac.

Even then, the creatures continued on, forcing Eragon to feel like little more than an animal, lost as he was in a storm of agony, reduced to his most primal urges, stripped of the memory of even his own name. Still, words and names rolled from his frantic tongue as he screamed.

But he knew not their meaning.


	6. Flight and Fall

The world shifted in and out of focus, hazy and indistinct, like a reflection seen half through water, constantly shifting and rippling, stolen away almost entirely by dark shadows. Half heard voices echoed in Eragon's ears, the roaring of a dragon dominating the static noise as pain pounded through his head, throbbing like fire in his veins and burning embers on his flesh with each and every beat of his tired heart. His throat was as dry as if he'd swallowed sand, sore and chafed from his long screaming. Blood and other, unnamable fluids trickled down his limbs from his burns and gashes, pooling in the depression in the floor at his feet. The gory liquid had risen up to his ankles.

Scattered thoughts drifted through his bedraggled mind, shattered at frequent intervals by flashes of blinding, crippling pain. Stunned and dazed, he was only barely able to process his gratefulness to the fact that he could not feel his shoulders and arms; those parts of his body, at least, were so utterly beyond Eragon's comprehension of the word "pain" that he could no longer process the agony within them. His mind was still too sluggish to consider the possibility that this was a very severe problem.

"Arya…" he whispered again for perhaps the hundredth time, not even sure why he was doing so. Names were so meaningless right then, confusing and ambiguous. He could not even quite remember his own. "Saphira…" was his second whisper, again incomprehensible. Nothing had meaning to him, all was darkness and void, but at the same time, light and substance, shifting back forth until all was lost in the transition and Eragon deaf to the world around him, which was only a blessing considering the state of his broken body.

Something touched his face, eliciting a meaningless pain from the mangled skin of his cheeks. Eragon blinked blearily at the dark room as his head was pulled back by his hair, yet blind to all. A hard, cool object touched his inflamed lips, forcing a harsh, fiery liquid down his throat. It burned in his stomach, generating a painful heat throughout his body, all the way to the minuscule nerves at the tips of his fingers and toes.

Eragon gasped, the miserable world around him slamming back into focus as the fiery liquid in his bowels chased away the last of the lethargy from his limbs. All at once, Eragon's waking consciousness quickly began to process the tremendous and varied pains covering nearly every inch of his skin.

Inhaling sharply with wheezing lungs, Eragon threw his head back-the muscles in his neck roaring in protest-and screamed at the top of his voice, shouting the first word that came to his stunned, burdened mind. He wasn't even entirely sure what it was he had said. The pain was simply so extreme that he honestly did not even care.

When his breath was spent, Eragon slumped in the chains hanging him from the ceiling, panting, eyes stinging as he forcefully kept them open, for it even hurt to blink. Arya's name echoed through the caverns around him, marred only by the mocking, hissing laughter in the room with him.

A crooked finger pushed his chin up until Eragon was looking at the cloaked form of a Ra'zac. He barely noticed that it was the only other living creature in the room. No emotions went through him at any of these most recent developments, as Eragon's mind was still frantically attempting to manage and subdue the agony.

"You had a good night'sss sssleep, yesss?" it asked, chuckling to itself in a strange, jumping hiss.

Eragon blinked uncomprehendingly at the creature, a string of blood trailing from his lip as he attempted to satisfy his aching lungs with his urgent gasps.

The Ra'zac laughed. "No, I didn't think ssso…" It cocked its head at him, remaining silent. "Your brother will be here sssooon. Do you think he will be sssurprisssed to sssee your condition?"

Eragon, his wits slowly returning despite the pain gasped out, "No… considering I… killed your… _foul_… _parasitic_ family, I don't expect he will."

The Ra'zac's laughter ceased, replaced by an angry hissing before it swept its hand back across its chest. Before Eragon could so much as flinch, the Ra'zac backhanded him across the face with so much force that three teeth came loose in his mouth.

_"You have paid for that in blood!"_ it screamed as Eragon tiredly let the displaced teeth fall from his mouth. "Do you not think we can't go further? _We can!_ The creature seized his throat, bringing its face within inches of Eragon's. He suppressed the urge to gag as its fetid odor and breath washed over his face, its bulbous eyes glinting menacingly as its beak snapped close to Eragon's nose. In a much lower, quieter hiss, it said, "If you tempt me, I _will_ go further. I will eat you ssslowly, keeping you alive all the while jussst ssso I can hear your ssscreamsss!"

Though it pained him, Eragon laughed. "And then… what will you do when… Galbatorix punishes you for it?"

The Ra'zac drew back, regarding Eragon with unknown emotion, its hideous face hidden in the shadows of its cowl. It laughed then, an evil, menacing laugh that Eragon could not help but feel a twitch of fear within his chest, his pain momentarily forgotten.

"And what will _you_ do… when I kill thisss… Arya?" it asked, pushing its face closer to Eragon's once more.

Eragon froze. "I don't know… what you're… talking about," he panted.

Hissing laughter echoed around him. "Don't you? Then how isss it… That you ssscream her name with every touchhh of pain? And… Sssaphira… That isss the name of your dragon, isss it not?"

Eragon hung his head, ashamed and horrified that he'd revealed his affections for Arya, and to these creatures. He was not sure if Galbatorix would know who she was, but it made little difference, as it probably would not take him long to find out.

He'd doomed Arya to a fate that bound her destiny inexorably to his, and though-in a distracted, trivial, and wayward fashion-he was morbidly pleased by this, he could not help but feel the shame that he'd put her in such danger… She would likely be as high on Galbatorix's list of priorities as Eragon, though for an immensely different reason.

Galbatorix would use her to force Eragon to do his bidding. And Eragon knew-and in that knowing was ashamed of himself-that he would do _anything_ to keep her safe.

_Unless I kill these new Ra'zac,_ he suddenly thought with venom, lifting his head to glare at the Ra'zac. But how could it be done?

The Ra'zac laughed again. "I will find her… and I will kill her. And your dragon?" It hissed delightedly. "I may jussst clip her wingsss."

The anger was near unbearable now, threatening to make him abandon all reason, to turn Eragon into an animal with only one desire: death. "If you touch her-_either of them_-I'll kill you," Eragon growled.

The Ra'zac laughed. "Ssso you _do_ have… feelingsss for thisss… Arya?"

It laughed again as Eragon gritted his teeth, irritated by his own stupidity. _Can I do _nothing_ properly?_ Outwardly, he remained silent.

"Know thisss," the Ra,zac said, leaning even closer. "For what you… have done to my _family_, I will hunt thisss… Arya down. And when I found her…" It chuckled sickeningly to itself. Eragon shuddered, thinking the sound similar to the buzzing of swarms of flies. "When I find her… I will ssstrip the flesh from her bonesss… I will eat every _morsssel_ of her flesh, I will revel in her ssscreamsss… Ssslowly, I will drink her blood, and in the end… I will forcssse you to watch as I eat her heart."

Eragon was shaking with rage as the Ra'zac laughed at him, rejecting the images of what the foul creature was threatening to do. The thought of Arya dying-not even dying in agonizing fashion the Ra'zac was suggesting-ignited a fury within him, a fury he'd never known, never felt before. The wrath growing within him surprised and frightened Eragon; he'd hated-or so he thought-before, but never had he so much wanted to _kill_ someone. It felt wrong, out place, as it was against his inner most nature. It was familiar, as he'd felt it in Saphira's consciousness from time to time, but it was still wholly out of place in his own being.

But there was no denying its presence; it would not be ignored.

The Ra'zac was chuckling at him. "Have I ssstruck a chord?"

Trembling with anger, Eragon glared into the Ra'zac's bulging eyes, imagining the foul creature splitting at the seams and falling apart into gory pieces, its greenish guts spilling out onto the floor. The image filled him with a morbid but undeniable satisfaction.

Then another image came to him, one of blood and despair, all his own. He watched with detached interest as the Ra'zac split open his skull and lapped at his blood, then another image of the creature slurping the marrow from his own bones whilst he was still alive. It disturbed him for a moment, for surely these thoughts were not his own?

Glancing down, he saw that the Ra'zac had its twisted, knotted hand around his neck, bathing its shelled fingers in Eragon's congealing blood. Looking back up into the huge, round eyes of the Ra'zac, he began to hear voices in his mind, unwholesome, detestable voices that made him think of things best left untouched.

_What isss he doing?_ it said, the image of Eragon's own mutilated face floating about in his mind. _Why isss he looking at me like that?_ The voice made a strange, frustrated, hissing sound., images of Eragon's demise flashing rapidly through his yes. _By blood and bone, if only Galbatorixsss did not want him alive! I would tear out hisss eyesss right now, yesss, and feassst ssslowly on hisss flesh! I would…_

Eragon stopped listening when he realized what was happening. _I'm reading the Ra'zac's mind!_ he thought, excited. Why had he not been able to do so before? Did it have something to do with the fact that the creature was touching him, or was it because they were staring into each other's eyes?

Eragon, considering the question as he knew Oromis would expect, doubted it was the latter, for such a thing did not make particular sense and consequently was not likely. The eyes were the windows to the body and soul, but not the mind… Eye contact had never strengthened the connection of minds before, so he doubted it was doing so now.

The former, however, seemed to be plausible. After all, all beings had a consciousness, even plants-albeit slow, alien ones. The Ra'zac and Lethrblaka had one too, so it made sense that their thoughts could be read somehow, if not through the ordinary extension of minds. _Their consciousness must be confined solely to their flesh,_Eragon thought, his reasoning slightly fuzzy because of the pain. _It must not be detectable through anything but physical contact…_ It made sense, to a degree. Perhaps there was a limited shield about the Ra'zac and Lethrblaka, containing their minds within their flesh and excluding all external contact. By touching him, the Ra'zac may have very well brought him within the confines of that shield, thus granting him access to the creature's mind.

He wondered if Galbatorix was aware of this.

The Ra'zac suddenly released his neck, stepping back. Eragon slumped forward slightly, the anger holding the pain at bay, keeping it at manageable levels, levels he could process fully and still retain his sanity. The cease of skin to skin contact with the Ra'zac, however, confirmed his theory; the feel of the creature's mind vanished.

"You're brother should be here sssoon," it hissed, taking another step back. "When he takesss you away… I will go looking for thisss… Arya."

Eragon completely lost control then, the anger flashing like an inferno through him, consuming all rational thought. All he wanted to do was kill this _thing_ before him. Fiery hatred burned through him, banishing the pain that would have otherwise made what he was about to do nigh impossible.

"Jierda!" he roared, magic flooding through him as he ferociously threw himself through the barrier. The chains holding his wrists in place shattered into white hot pieces, flying about the room and ricocheting off the stone walls, cutting open Eragon's hands and arms, cauterizing the gashes all the while. Eragon, in his rage, didn't even notice the tremendous drop in his already depleted strength. Even so, he managed to keep his feet when he fell to the floor, sinking to his knees as to not fall over.

As the Ra'zac rushed toward him, dagger in hand, Eragon leapt upward and seized the creature about its throat. Intent as he was on crushing the life out of this _thing_ that had threatened Arya's life, he offered only a grunt of pain as the Ra'zac's dagger plunged into his arm through the muscles in his bicep, remaining there as the creature's arm fell away.

The Ra'zac's panic was a minor distraction as Eragon plunged into its mind, sweeping aside its feeble defenses and ignoring its fury and terror. With a force of will, Eragon immobilized the creature, taking hold of its thoughts and manipulating them to his whims. The Ra'zac stiffened and stood straight at his commands, its arms and legs going rigid. Eragon's hands tightened around its throat, causing the creature to gargle sickeningly as the carapace about its neck began to crack, oozing greenish blood.

The sound penetrated through Eragon's rage, piercing him to his core and filling him with horror at the thought of what was happening. _What am I doing? Do even the Ra'zac deserve to die so horribly?_ Another, more serious and ethical thought occurred to him; _And who am I to decide what anyone deserves? I've killed hundreds._ His grip slackened as these thoughts ran through his mind, though he did not relinquish his control over the Ra'zac's body. Pain began to break through his concentration, making him aware once more of the wounds covering his body. His hands, soaked as they had been in Seithr Oil, were especially pained, for they were gripping the Ra'zac's neck.

_I still have to kill him,_ Eragon thought, in no way saddened by the fact. The creature had, after all, threatened to kill those whom he held most dear in particularly painful ways. Ignoring the Ra'zac's terror, Eragon wedged himself deeper within its mind, locating its energy and seizing it, well aware of the wounds of his body.

"Waise heill!" he said, funneling the Ra'zac's strength into his spell. Relief and blessed painlessness rushed through Eragon as his gashes knitted back together, his bones restored themselves, and his burns began to be covered by whole, unblemished skin. The dagger fell from his arm, clattering against the floor as the pointed tips of his ears grew anew. Even new teeth quickly grew, filling the gaps in his mouth. He let out an involuntary gasp of release as the pain left him.

The Ra'zac, however, was left nearly dead; the spell had consumed nearly all its strength. The creature was trembling with exhaustion. _You will die,_ it hissed in its mind. _The king will hunt you down and punish you for what you have done. You will never find peacssee._

_Perhaps…_ Eragon answered.

The Ra'zac gargled, hissing angrily in its mind. _Curssse you, Shadessslayer. You have killed my family, likely doomed my racssse, and ssstill you live. May you leave Alagaesia and never return!_

Foreboding stole through Eragon at its words, for he had heard them before. To the Ra'zac, he said, _You are not the first to tell me this… I already knew of that doom. _

The Ra'zac hissed.

"Deyja," Eragon said, again using the Ra'zac's energy, but forgetting the wards that Galbatorix had placed around the creatures. Fighting the wards quickly consumed the remainder of the Ra'zac's strength, and it slumped to the ground, slipping out of Eragon's grip and crashing to the ground, green blood oozing from the cracks in its ebony exoskeleton.

Shaking his head to clear the lingering affects of the pain, Eragon knelt down to the Ra'zac's corpse, searching for weapons while he listened intently for the other Ra'zac and the Lethrblaka. It was not long before he found the hilt of a sword, similar in design to the pale blades that the original Ra'zac had used, the ones that Roran and Eragon had fought against. Instead of just taking the blade, he took the sheath as well, attaching it to the Belt of Beloth the wise at his waist. Dismay filled him when he saw that the belt was covered in his blood, dry and cracking. Flicking a flake of dried blood from the bump of cloth covering one of the twelve diamonds, Eragon hoped that it hadn't ruined the cloth.

Satisfied that he would find nothing else, Eragon drew the pale blade from its sheath and warily exited the room into the eerie dark halls of Helgrind, the moist air cold against his exposed chest and back. Faint whispers echoed chillingly through the dark hall as he put his hand to the wall, slowly creeping along the path in the blinding darkness. He would have liked to use magic to enable himself to see, but he did not want to expose his position to the remaining enemies within the dark fortress. Flicking his eyes rapidly about at the darkness, he shivered and raised the sword in preparation.

The maze of tunnels within Helgrind were difficult to traverse, Eragon knew, drawing on his experience from his previous visit. It would be easy to get lost, especially in the darkness. Fortunately, he had thought of this before slaying the Ra'zac in the torture room, and had extracted the general layout from its mind. He was fervently glad for his foresight as he navigated the maze-like tunnels, drawing on the Ra'zac's memories to find his way to the entrance. What he would do when he got there, he didn't yet know… He didn't even really let himself consider the question, because he knew that only despair and hopelessness lay down that path… He had faith that the way would prevent itself.

In the back of his mind, he also knew that Oromis would be heavily disapproving of that faith.

Aware that it would likely do little to improve his situation but not sure what he else he was to do, Eragon offered a quick prayer to all the Dwarven gods he could remember, asking for a way out of this mess.

Palpable relief filled Eragon when he saw sunlight ahead, a small sigh of the same emotion escaping him. Skimming the course wall with the tips of his fingers, he ran forward toward the light, holding his scavenged sword tightly.

Clicking echoed to the tunnel off to his right, sending a shudder down Eragon's spine.

Reacting only by instinct, Eragon threw himself to the ground, ducking under the blade that would have otherwise taken off his arm. As it was, the sword skated against the stone wall, spraying yellow sparks onto Eragon's back. Rolling to his feet, he searched the dark cavern for his attacker, and-remembering what he knew of the creatures, shouted, "Garjzla!"

Bright blue light exploded throughout the hall, illuminating the single Ra'zac on the opposite side of Eragon from the sunlight and the two Lethrblaka behind it. All three screamed in pain, the noise so loud, shrill, and disconcerting that Eragon instantly went deaf and hairline cracks began to lace the walls of the hall, dropping grains of broken rock and dust onto the four beings within.

Stunned by the violence of the sound, Eragon was unable to react quickly enough to slay the Ra'zac before it leapt backwards out of his reach, dropping its sword and clutching at its bulbous eyes. It landed on its back and began to flail about, its dark cloak twining about its floundering limbs. The two Lethrblaka reacted likewise, rolling about on their stomachs and backs, writhing frantically, wings, tail, and claws smashing into the walls, eliciting further showers of tiny rocks. Eragon thought it strange to see such a thing but hear not a sound.

_I can't get close to them when they're thrashing like that,_ Eragon thought, frustrated. He had hoped to kill the creatures while they were incapacitated. _I'd be killed if I went any closer… Any of the Lethrblaka's limbs are strong or sharp enough to kill me with a single blow._

Turning his back on the thrashing pile of limbs, Eragon ran toward the sunlight quickly as he could, still unsure of what he was going to do once he got there. Hot, sticky blood drizzled slowly from his ears, matting in his already blood-crusted hair. He didn't even want to think about what he looked like in that moment, gore covered and worn as he was.

But such a thought was trivial and subconscious in that moment, for Eragon was running for his life, the blue light fading back into blackness behind him. Heart pounding in his ears, Eragon sprinted for the gap of sunlight ahead, desperate to just feel the warmth on his skin. It seemed an eternity that he'd been in darkness.

Uncertain of what he was to do now that he'd reached his destination, Eragon skidded to a stop at the edge of the entrance, feet coming within in inch of the precipice. A field of green forest and amber fields opened up before him, fading into a bluish mist at the edge of the horizon. Below, smoke drifted in lazy spirals up into the sky from the clustered buildings of Dras-Leona. Beyond the city, Leona Lake glinted and shimmered in the sunlight like a field of golden cloth shifting in the wind, sparkling and reflected like as if it were composed of millions upon millions of diamonds and other brilliant jewels, bright as the sun itself.

Had he not seen like sights countless times before from upon Saphira's back, and he wasn't in the midst of potentially lethal enemies, Eragon might have been frozen by the landscape, entranced by its obvious beauty. As it was, his fear and desperation prevented him from staring like a moonstruck fool at the sight.

Still, he did freeze, thought not for the beauty. He was simply unsure what to do next. If he threw himself off the side of Helgrind, he would be able to use magic to halt his descent, but the effort would leave him too tired to move, an easy recapture for the Ra'zac and Lethrblaka. Neither could he stay, for skilled as he was, he could not hope to defeat all three of the foes behind him, especially since all three were protected by any magical attack he could conceive. No, he could not slay them by force of arms. At least not without Saphira.

_But I _do_ know a spell that works on them._ Eragon remembered suddenly, berating himself for forgetting. It was the spell that blocked light from entering their eyes, thus blinding them… He quickly began to turn about to cast the magic.

The chance was torn from his grasp.

One of the Lethrblaka's long neck rushed past him out over the side of the drop, its beak furiously opening and closing, generating no doubt piercing screeches, but falling uselessly on Eragon's deaf ears. Still, by the position of the creature's head and the speed at which it was moving indicated something rather dangerous to Eragon. He tried to leap out of the way to remove the danger.

It was too late. Eragon felt the wind leave his body with back-bending force as the wing of the Lethrblaka struck him from behind, sending him reeling out into open space, the sword flying from his grip. The strange feeling of weightlessness filled him, and his stomach flipped as he began tumbling through the air, falling head over heels, his arms and legs flying every which way in a marionette dance down the side of the forbidding mountain. The world spun around him, reduced to bright, continuous circles of color that blurred and clarified with no apparent pattern. His eyes watered with the speed of his fall, but he could still see the ground rushing up to meet him, along with the Lethrblaka tumbling about-much in the same way he himself was-below, falling faster than he for its greater mass and weight.

Remembering his training with Oromis through his panic, Eragon spread his out his arms and legs while facing the oncoming ground, attempting to slow the speed of his flight so he could think of what he was going to do. Down below, the Lethrblaka was doing much the same, opening its wings to, no doubt, fly away.

Seeing his chance, Eragon angled his body downward into a steep dive, almost instantly increasing the velocity of his plunge. Tears streamed down-rather, up-his face from his eyes as he fell faster and faster, the Lethrblaka just beginning to flap its wings directly below him. _Come on, come on…_ Eragon thought, mentally urging himself to go faster. The ground suddenly looked incredibly forbidding.

Once again, the wind was thrust out of Eragon with violent force as he struck the Lethrblaka's upraised wing, tumbling down across its leathery flight membrane onto its rank back, where he lay, stunned, for several long moments, barely aware of the fact that the creature beneath him was rising up into the air once more. Despite his lung's urgency for air, he couldn't help but gag at the smell before mastering himself and breathing in. A faint screeching penetrated the deafness permeating his ears, and the Lethrblaka twisted its long neck around, snapping its sharp beak at him. Eragon slid backward onto its hindquarters to avoid being gored, just barely maintaining a grip on its smelly leather skin as it continued to rise through the air. Still screeching, the Lethrblaka rolled over in the air, dislodging Eragon from its back. For a single, panicked moment, Eragon fell freely down back to the earth before snagging one of the joints in its wings. They plummeted dangerously for a moment, the Lethrblaka incapable of flapping its wing with Eragon's weight clinging to it.

Realizing the danger, Eragon slid off the membrane, meaning to secure himself on its back, but missing and slamming into one of the creatures hard, muscular legs, knocking the breath out of him. It kicked ferociously, nearly slicing him in half with its spike-like claws. With a savage growl, Eragon leapt back onto its back from the limb, attacking the creature's mind.

It met his attack after a brief moment of surprise, crushing his offensive with the force of its consciousness, forcing Eragon to retreat back behind his barriers, muttering a scrap of doggerel. Belatedly, he remembered that Oromis had told him that the Lethrblaka had all the intelligence of a dragon, albeit a wicked, twisted one. The Mourning Sage had been right on both counts; the Lethrblaka's mind was strong and cunning, accented with eerie undertones of harsh screeches and morbid, bloody images and emotions that so clearly exposed its evil. Eragon felt scarred by his contact with the creature, defiled and unclean, as if he had touched something contagious.

Strong as the Lethrblaka was, it did not seem to be experienced in battles of minds, so it mounted no offensive against him, for which Eragon was fervently thankful; he was sure that, if it had, he would not have lasted against it long. As it was, he refrained from contact with its mind, instead clinging desperately to its leathery flesh as it tried to dislodge him. Off to the right, the peaks of Helgrind rose and dropped away, becoming part of the blurry landscape beneath them.

Suddenly, the Lethrblaka stopped twisting beneath him, reverting to a steady flight, angled straight forward. Cautious and wary, Eragon only slightly loosened his grip on its leathery hide, looking around and wondering what was going on. The world stretched out endlessly underneath him, visible from horizon from horizon, the Leona Lake shimmering at the edge of the world in the east.

Another screech pierced Eragon's deafness, and he twisted around in surprise to see that the second Lethrblaka, the Ra'zac on its back, was flying directly behind them. The second Lethrblaka's wings beat at a rapid pace, pushing forward to the side of Eragon's mount and slowing.

With strangely elf-like grace, the Ra'zac leapt onto the back of the Lethrblaka Eragon was riding, swinging its pale blade at Eragon's side. Eragon rolled back to avoid the blow, yelping as he nearly fell from the creature's back. Eragon slowly stood, holding his hands out at his sides and putting his feet one in front of the other to keep his balance. The Ra'zac also appeared to be having trouble keeping its footing, but nevertheless lunged toward Eragon, the point of its sword directed toward Eragon's knee. Eragon leapt over the Ra'zac's arm, flying past his attacker and grabbing the knob of one of the Lethrblaka's spinal discs to keep himself on its back. He found himself lying flat across the creature's back, his head hanging out over its side. The ground was so far below it was making even _him_ dizzy.

The sword was once again slashing toward his leg when Eragon looked up. He rolled to the side, falling off the Lethrblaka's back. Grabbing its leg, he flung himself back onto its back while the creature screamed, the sound vividly clear despite Eragon's deafness, for the Ra'zac's blade had bit deeply into its flesh. They all dropped frighteningly as the Lethrblaka began angling downward back toward Helgrind, green gore stringing out from the wound into the air behind it. The Ra'zac teetered dangerously for a moment, then lurched forward to Eragon, blade held threateningly at its side.

As the Ra'zac swung the blade at Eragon, the Lethrblaka shifted under their feet, knocking the Ra'zac off balance. Taking advantage of this new opening, Eragon lunged under the weapon and struck his opponent in the center of the chest with the heel of his hand. He felt something crack under his hand with the blow, and the Ra'zac tumbled back through the air, dropping its sword. Eragon seized the weapon before it could fall off the Lethrblaka's back. Comforted by the weight of the steel in his hand, he secured a grip on the Lethrblaka and looked around for the Ra'zac. He found it clinging to the Lethrblaka's tail, swinging wildly in the speed of their descent. With its voluminous black cloak writhing madly, it looked quite humorous.

Screeching once echoed faintly in Eragong's ears, causing him to duck instinctively. The action likely saved his life-or at least his freedom-for the second Lethrblaka sailed overhead, its claws raking across the point where Eragon had been a moment before. The wind of its passage nearly dislodged Eragon from his perch, but he held firm, looking around for the next attack. It didn't immediately come, for the Lethrblaka leisurely flapped to the tail end of Eragon's mount and retrieved the Ra'zac, securing it in the saddle on its back before flying out of sight once more.

On the second attack, Eragon was nearly killed; the Lethrblaka came from behind and snatched at him with its deadly hands. It missed, but clipped his shoulder, sending him sprawling across the his mount's fetid back. He scrambled for a handhold, slicing open the creature's back with the blade several times before he found one, exposing several ribs. The creature trembled with pain beneath him.

_I have to end this,_ Eragon thought with gritted teeth, looking around for the next attack. _This could end in all our deaths… Not that it would be a horrible thing, but I, at least, would like to survive the encounter…_ His determination hardened to steel when he remembered that Arya was coming to Helgrind; he had to head her off.

At the next pass, Eragon was prepared. As the Lethrblaka flapped toward him, beak gaping open and its clawed hands extending suggestively, Eragon tightened his grip on his mount and his sword, mentally attempting to figure out how he was going to do what he had in mind. Helgrind's peaks appeared directly below them as he waited, sharp summits like black knives reaching for them with evil intent. Releasing a breath of intense effort, Eragon relinquished his handhold when the Lethrblaka drew closer, dodged around the its claws and beak, and thrust his sword upward as it flew past. The weapon sunk halfway up its blade into the creature's stomach, carving a deep, thick, bloody ravine across the underside of the Lethrblaka as it continued on its way. Green gore showered over Eragon as the blade was wrenched from his hand, still imbedded in the Lethrblaka's stomach as it flapped laboriously on. Blood gushed from Eragon's ears as the creature screamed, making him feel as if his head were splitting in half.

Still, Eragon knew what needed to be done. Raising his hand-the one with the gedwey ignasia-he said, "Gath sem sverdar un lam iet!" His strength dropped as the blade in the fleeing Lethrblaka's stomach tore itself free in a shower of green blood and returned to Eragon's hand.

Eragon's stomach lurched as the Lethrblaka he was riding plummeted dangerously, diving steeply for the entrance to Helgrind's caverns. Before them, the second Lethrblaka crashed into the side of the bare mountain, claws carving into the stone as it raked its limbs across its surface, halting its perilously swift descent as it fell through the illusion of the entrance and leaving the black mountain streaked with a stripe of green gore.

The Lethrblaka wobbled sickeningly as it flapped toward the gap. _I can't let it get back in there,_ Eragon thought. _I'll just end up back where I started._

This in mind, he looked down over the muscled side of the creature, noting that they were still several thousand feet above the ground. A fall from this height would likely be lethal, even if he did use magic to stop himself; such a spell would likely consume the meager remains of his strength. As quickly as he could, Eragon ran a dozen options of what could be done to escape through his mind, each one more unlikely and outlandish as the next, so he dismissed them all. In the end, there was only one real option left to him.

He huffed nervously. Gritting his teeth, he said. "Well, there's no point delaying it!" Reaching out, he slashed the sword through the thin membrane of the Lethrblaka's wing, tearing a six foot rent in the material. Greenish blood poured from it as Eragon repeated the action on the opposite wing.

The Lethrblaka screeched shrilly, forcing Eragon to go cross eyed with pain as the sound tore through his skull like the rending fingers of some terrible, fiery demon, despite his heavily wounded ears. Before he lost consciousness, he cast a spell to protect himself from sound. The pain stopped.

Thankfully, the damage had been done. The Lethrblaka tottered uncertainly in the air, the gashes in its wings interfering with its ability to fly and causing it to overshoot the entrance to Helgrind, dropping past it. It flapped arduously, green and yellow spittle flying from its beak as it started to rise toward the cavern once more.

With detached disgust, Eragon carved two more tears in its wings.

Its beak opening and closing, emitting what were no doubt mind rending screams, the Lethrblaka plummeted downward, its mutilated wings barely able to keep it from dropping into a complete freefall. Eragon's stomach rose into what felt like his throat as they dropped a thousand feet… two thousand….

When they were no more than a thousand feet above the ground, the creature managed to halt their fall, flapping its wings so furiously that the blood from the tears in its flight membranes formed a green mist at its sides. It didn't begin to rise again-such tears in its wings made such a thing nigh impossible-but it started to slowly drift toward the ground.

_These wounds aren't lethal,_ Eragon thought, fully aware of what would happen if they reached the ground with the Lethrblaka in its current state.

When they were no more than two hundred feet from the ground, Eragon swiftly slashed the sword across the protrusion that attached the wings to the Lethrblaka's back, completely severing the muscles.

The sudden giddy weightlessness took Eragon by surprise. All the world was turned to a streaky blur when they entered a swift freefall as the Lethrblaka screamed, unheard, of course, by Eragon. Helgrind rushed by beside them, and the Lethrblaka's head flailed about above him atop its long neck. Eragon's hair writhed wildly about his head and he began to drift upward off the creature's back. The sword flew from his hand as he released it to grip the Lethrblaka's back with a two hands, clenching his thighs around the creature's spine so hard that they began to cramp. For the moment, he was fervently glad that there was no food in his stomach; he hadn't eaten in nearly three days.

Trees cracked and splintered underneath the Lethrblaka's muscled weight as it crashed down to the ground, striking against the ground thunderously and flinging a tremendous cloud of dust into the air. Eragon felt an unholy amount of bones crack, splinter, and snap in the creature beneath him, though, protected as he was from sound, the entire crash was silent.

Still, the impact rocked him, flinging him from the Lethrblaka's back and flipping him over in the air before he crashed to the ground on his back. Breath whooshed from his lungs as he crushed against the ground, his head snapping back into the dirt. The world shifted in and out of focus for a moment before everything turned black.

After a long, pain filled minute, light filtered once again through Eragon's eyes, revealing with normal clarity the colorful world around him. Stunned and dazed, he did not move for another ten minutes.

When he felt confident enough to move, he sat up slowly, looking around. He was, miraculously, on the ground, surrounded by sparse trees and rolling hills. Dazed by the wonder of it, Eragon didn't move for a long moment. Then, he leapt to his feet, whooping in joy, for he had seen the sunlight for the first time in three days, escaped Helgrind after days of torture, survived a mile high fall, and slain one of the new Ra'zac. It seemed impossible.

He did, however, regret his celebration when, a moment later, his head began to pound, a sharp pain riving through it. It was, no doubt, the result of striking the ground in the fashion he had. Still, it was a small price to pay for his life and his freedom.

Turning about, he saw the crumpled body of the Lethrblaka, surrounded by the wreckage of the trees it had destroyed in its fall. Its wings were bent at awkward angles, hollow flight bones sticking through the leathery skin, as were its legs and tail. Green blood surrounded the creature, collecting in a massive puddle about its broken form. Its beak, once long and lethal looking, was cracked and dented, a barbed tongue hanging out the side.

Though, by all rights, he ought to have been repelled by the gruesome sight and its vile stink, he was driven forward by some perverse desire to see the destruction wrought on this creature by his own hands. In a macabre way, he was proud of what he had done to this creature, which disturbed him. He tried to fathom why he would feel such, and could only conclude that he was happy to have slain the creature after its family had nigh destroyed his life and relentlessly tortured him for close to a complete four days, even while traveling.

_It's alive!_ Eragon exclaimed on closer inspection, detecting the slight rise and fall of its torso that indicated ragged breathing. He looked more closely. Yes, it was still alive, but only just… It was bound to die soon. Several ribs likely had snapped and driven themselves through its lungs, which would explain the labored breathing.

Tentatively, Eragon reached out and touched its leathery hide, feeling the intense heat underneath its skin. With his mind, he reached out and touched the consciousness of the creature.

It was not so strong as it had been before. It was still intelligent, its mind screeching with harsh, hateful sounds, but it was fuzzy and pain wracked, filled with panic, for it knew that it was close to death.

_You are ssstrong,_ it hissed in the ancient language, its voice crackling and shrill, but strangely deep and powerful sounding. Eragon didn't answer. The Lethrblaka laughed, the evil sound echoing in its own consciousness. _I believe that my family and I greatly contributed to your ssstrength._

_You have done nothing for me,_ Eragon retorted angrily. _You have given me nothing but pain._

_Exsssactly,_ it said. _We have made you what you are. You are a ssstrong warrior, at firssst driven to gain ssstrength to cassst revenge on usss. And now your heart is hardened and cold, for you have endured a torture that few could._ It wearily blinked a bulbous eye at him, laughing in its mind. _You will carry on our legacsssy, Shurtugal, whether you are partial to the concssept or not._

Eragon was deeply disturbed by what it was saying. He wasn't entirely sure if it was right, but their was at least a small grain of truth imbedded in it. _You may be right,_ he conceded. _But it doesn't matter._

_Doesn't it?_ The Lethrblaka groaned inwardly, the pain within it reaching an all new height. Still, the majority of its spoken thought was crystal clear. _You will find, o' little Shurtugal, that it mattersss very much. For you, it could mean the difference between life and death, defeat and victory. Inssstead of hesssitating with the final blow and sparing Galbatorixsss and taking him before your "sssuperiorsss"-asss you did with thisss Sssloan,_ It laughed as Eragon jumped in surprise. _You may now have the ssstrength to ssslay the king._ It laughed again. _If you did hesssitate with the final blow, Galbatorixsss would not. He would take advantage of any weaknesss and kill you._

_I already knew that._

_Then ssstop showing weaknesss!_ the Lethrblaka roared, attempting to shift its body in its anger. Pain ripped through it, causing even Eragon to flinch, but it continued speaking, _You have shown little but weaknesss. But we have given you ssstrength! Ussse it._

_Why are you trying to help me?_ Eragon asked, confused.

_Am I?_ It rolled one eye toward him. _I sssuppossse I am. I am helping you, Shurtugal, becaussse, as much you hate usss, we do not enjoy ssserving the king. And that isss why I asssk thisss of you…_ It paused suggestively.

_Yes?_ Eragon asked warily.

It laughed at his hesitation, its mind darkening as it shifted further toward the void. _Kill the remainder of my family. They do not enjoy ssslavery much more than myssself. And kill the king in the mossst painful way you can, for I would exsssact revenge on him if I could._

_These were already my intentions._

It laughed. _I know._ On its next breath, green blood sprayed from its beak, and it coughed for several long moments. When it finished, it said, _Just make sure you follow through on them._

Eragon said nothing.

The Lethrblaka laughed at his disgust. _You Shurtugal never change. We alwaysss enjoyed fighting you. You were as clossse to our rivalsss asss ever there were. It would ssseem you won in the end._

_Aren't you worried about the extinction of your race?_

It laughed, spraying more green blood from its maimed beak. _Of courssse not. There are more of usss across the sssea. If you live long enough, you will crosss pathsss with them eventually._

Eragon shuddered.

The creature laughed once more. _I am pleasssed that you will remember usss with fear._ It closed its eyes. _Take my ssstrength, Shurtugal, if you mussst. You will need it, and I know the belt that you wear._

Eragon, only to eager to obey, began to reach for its energy.

_Wait,_ it said suddenly. Eragon stopped. _I want you to remember me, Shurtugal. Remember me and shudder. Remember me by my name. Remember me asss Ssskyrassk._

_You give me little choice,_ Eragon said. _It will be difficult for me to forget your family._

_I am glad to live on in your nightmaresss,_ Skyrask said, genuinely pleased.

Not waiting to see if the creature had anything else to say, Eragon reached forward and began siphoning off its strength, funneling its energy into himself. Skyrask was weak, but he had been a strong creature and its strength was great. The amount that remained, though it was slight compared to its full strength, was great indeed. When Eragon was once again at full strength, he channeled the rest throughout the diamonds at his belt, filling them with no small amount.

When Skyrask was about to pass into the void, he said, _Kill the king, Shurtugal. We flesheatersss ssserve no one, not even him! Promissse me thisss!_

Eragon didn't answer, but took the small remainder of its energy.

With that, Skyrask passed into the void.

Shaky and disturbed, Eragon stood, pleased to be once again at full strength, but troubled by the topics the conversation had covered. He contemplated this for several long moments, wondering at how much truth Skyrask had actually spoken.

_Arya,_ he thought suddenly. _Arya is going to be here looking for me, and Murtagh. I have to find her and take her back to the Varden…_ He looked up at the sky, half expecting Thorn to be hovering above him. Thankfully, he saw nothing but the blue of the heavens. _Arya… why couldn't you have stayed behind?_ Thinking of what the Ra'zac had elicited from him, he thought, _You're going to be in as much danger as I now… Oh, gods, why does everything have to be so difficult?_

He smiled as he thought of what Brom would have made of that statement, suddenly overcome by his grief for the old man. _Maybe I can visit his grave on the way back…_

Turning his eyes earthward, he distractedly healed his ears and set off into the woods, a stiff wind suddenly gusting through the thin trees.

Shivering, he thought, _I could do with a shirt._


	7. The Candle Burns

Red fire lit up the eastern horizon with a rosy aura of flame, casting long shadows westward. The trees dotting the plain sent their stretched, shady silhouettes in the same direction across the craggy rolling hills, falling on the lone elf-women striding across the land.

In something like a trance, Arya wearily mounted the rocky knoll, making her way to the top so she might see out over the land she was still to traverse. Loose black locks blew freely about her head as she came to the peak of the rise, catching on the tips of her pointed ears. Before her stretched the hills of Dras-Leona, covered by trees and forest, though none of them were especially thick. In the distance, Helgrind knifed into the sky, its black spires dark and forbidding as they presided over the plain and its inhabitants. To the east, the Leona Lake was set aflame by the setting sun, turned a blushing pink, looking almost like the Isidar Mithrim-the Great Star Sapphire-in Tronjheim. In a distracted way, she once again felt vague remorse for her part in the destruction of the monument. Still, the emotion was quick and fleeting, irrelevant at that point in time.

_It is twilight,_ Arya thought sorrowfully, looking out to the east as the blazing eye of the sun descended past the edge of the world. Helgrind, bathed on its eastward side by the reddish light, looked to be a strange tool of gray, half in and half out of shadows, mocking her all the while for her inability to arrive on time. Despite its malevolence, the black peaks looked strangely striking in the half light, terrible and beautiful at the same time, a contrary thing but undeniable. Still, it mocked her.

"I am too late," she whispered, a single tear streaking down her cheek. Eragon had been taken to that dark fortress in the distance and was most likely still imprisoned within. Were he not, he was no doubt en route to Uru'baen by way of Murtagh and his dragon, Thorn. Arya could neither hope to catch nor defeat the king's Rider, a fact that filled her with grief and hopelessness. What were the elves to do now? Galbatorix was now control of the new generation of Dragon Riders, born and unborn, tilting the already tipped scales in the dark king's favor. If Eragon were bound to serve Galbatorix, the Varden, dwarves, and elves could entertain no hope of emerging victorious from this war.

These were the reasons Arya gave herself, the excuses for the grief and pain wracking through her. _Eragon is lost…_ she thought, wallowing in her despondency. Untold emotions-akin to the ones she had experienced when Faolin had been killed-washed through her anew.

_Enough of this self-pity,_ she said to herself after several long moments, starting down the hill and heading north. _I will accomplish nothing here, sitting idly in misery like a swooning human maid._

When this thought passed through her mind, she froze mid-stride, her back straightening as she stiffened. _Is that what I was doing?_ Swooning?_ Am I so disturbed that I can do such a thing?_ The ridiculousness of it almost made her laugh, something she had done precious little of lately. _Swooning over Eragon?_ The last thought had received no prompting, it had simply come to the fore of her mind, unwanted and impossible. She contemplated it for several moments, wondering at the truth of it.

_I am distressed,_ she reasoned. _It is causing me to think in ways that I would never normally._

Dismissing that whole line of thought, Arya continued forward, making for the forest surrounding Helgrind. For the sake of meticulousness-and her own sanity-she needed to confirm that Eragon had actually been taken to the Galbatorix… If he was still imprisoned in Helgrind, perhaps she could somehow free him, though methods of doing so eluded her. It was a slim hope, but it was all she had.

And while she went, she could not stop herself from thinking about Eragon, could not stop her thoughts from drifting back to him. It didn't seem a strange thing, for, after all, the young Dragon Rider was the sole object of her mission, but she found herself considering him in ways quite beside the point of what she was doing. As she ran across the hills, climbing and descending, she thought of the pain Eragon must be experiencing, and felt her own pain and sorrow for him raise in response. She thought of how his recent trials must have changed him. _He is little more than a child… He can not endure such a thing with impunity. No one can… I shudder to think how he has changed._

It seemed a crime to dispel such innocence, for that was what Eragon was; innocent.

Running lightly, it took Arya only a brief time to reach the security of the trees, the miles melting before her feet. Under the cover of its branches, Arya felt more secure, more comfortable and at home. Even though she had spent the better part of her life ferrying Saphira's egg across Alaegasia, she had never quite lost her comfort within the cover of trees, remembering where she had been born and raised. Ellesmera had been, and always would be, her home, and that fact manifested itself in many ways, this not the least of them.

Glancing up through the shadows of the spidery branches, Arya saw that glittering stars were beginning to become apparent in the sky, and the red glow on the eastern horizon was beginning to fade, retreating and giving ground to the shadowy fingers of night.

_I should set up a camp or shelter of sorts,_ Arya thought, thinking that, if she was to wait to see if Eragon had been taken away, she might as well have a base, per se, to rest and store food she might find. She could be weeks in this place, unattractive as that possibility sounded.

Her elven eyes easily piercing the thickening darkness under the shade of the trees, Arya began to search for a suitable place to make camp, occasionally stopping to forage edible plants that she came across. As she searched, the creatures of the day returned to their homes and hiding places, and those of night began to wake, filling the darkness with the typical sounds of dusk. The noise formed a natural choir, composed of the chirping of crickets, the croaking of frogs and toads, the screeching of bats overhead, and the hooting of owls on the prowl.

Fortune smiled on her then, for she found a satisfactory shelter not long into her search, a simple but roomy cave, the entrance framed by two fallen and splintered trees. It was slightly damp for her taste, but this flaw was overshadowed by the fact that a stream ran through the back of it, which explained the moisture. It was not perfect, but it would do. _Comfort is of no real importance,_ she reminded herself. _Only security…_ She trailed off, despair filling her once more when she remembered that Eragon was sorely lacking in security at that moment… She imagined that he was hanging from chains, being tortured even at this point in time… The image didn't help her worry.

_Nasuada should be made aware of this,_ Arya thought, thinking of how she had not been able to free Eragon before he'd been put outside her reach.

Depositing her gathered food on an upraised rock, Arya went to the stream and crouched down, putting her hands together to form a bowl. At her word, several streams of crystal clear water rose from the stream to gather in her hand. After a moment, Nasuada appeared within it, looking weary and stressed.

"Arya," Nasuada said, looking as if she had expected this encounter.

Arya bowed her head. "Nasuada. I hope you are well."

Nasuada waved the pleasantries aside. "Of course I'm not. I assume that the reason you have not yet returned is that you decided to pursue Eragon?"

"I did."

Nasuada smiled weakly, her white teeth gleaming against her ebony skin. "Much as I disapprove… I am glad you did. Please tell me you found him."

Arya drew from her years of experience as an ambassador to keep her voice and face emotionless. "That is why I have contacted you… Eragon has been taken into Helgrind by two new Ra'zac and their parents."

Nasuada's smile fell, her face turning grave. "There are more of those monsters?"

"It would appear so."

Nasuada slumped into the plump, red armchair behind her and put her face in her hands. "Can't you retrieve him?" she asked of her palms.

"I cannot. Helgrind is bare rock, steeper than even an elf can climb. Even if I could, it is doubtful that I would be capable of defeating the creatures." She was sure that she could defeat two Ra'zac alone, but much less confident of defeating the Lethrblaka.

Nasuada didn't move. "Has Murtagh shown his face?"

Arya shifted uneasily. "No, but it is only a matter of time. He could have already come and gone… I only arrived here recently."

Nasuada raised her head with a sigh. "What will you do, Arya?"

Arya, surprising even herself, lowered her eyes from those of Nasuada's. "I will remain here," she said quietly. "At least for a time. I wish to see for myself that Eragon is truly beyond our help."

Nasuada rested her chin in one hand. "_Your_ help, you mean."

"Even so."

After a moment, Arya returned her gaze to Nasuada's face. The young woman was regarding her guardedly, dark eyes narrowed. "You look terrible, Arya."

Arya frowned. "Even elven women do not enjoy having such things said to them," she said. But then, she felt the corners of her mouth tilt up slightly. "It has been a long journey," she said, running a hand through her filthy hair. Small twigs and leaves were snagged in her black locks, and the hair itself was disheveled and frizzy. The state of her clothes were even worse; they were fraying at the cuffs, stained by mud and covered in dirt.

Nasuada's eyes flicked all about her face. "If you get the chance… Maybe you should clean up. It would be a shame for Eragon to see you like this… If you find him, that is."

Arya felt her eyes narrow. "I do not know why you would say such a thing, but I will do as you ask."

Nasuada smiled weakly before her faced returned to its haggard and dismal countenance. "Of course." She glanced away from Arya, looking off to the right. "It's late, Arya, and I need to sleep. It would be wise of you to do the same."

Arya said nothing, but simply favored Nasuada with a quick nod. Before Nasuada could leave, she asked, "Nasuada, I had thought, and rightly so, that Saphira would relinquish all responsibilities and ignore all perils to rescue Eragon were he in danger… Has she left the Varden?"

"No," Nasuada said, looking worried. "And that is what worries me most of all… Saphira has been suffering from… Tantrums. She hasn't flown in days."

Arya narrowed her eyes, greatly vexed by this news. "This is troubling news."

"Yes… It's been a headache. She's been roaring near constantly for days."

Uneasy, Arya said, "This is… Disturbing. But you are right, Nasuada. It is late." She began to release the spell.

"Wait," Nasuada said, holding up one dark hand. Arya looked at her as Nasuada lowered her hand. "Arya… If you think, at any moment, you can rescue Eragon… I know I was at first against it, but… You know better than I how important he is." A tear slid down her cheek. "He is our hope… Our only hope. We can do nothing without him."

Arya paused. "It is as you say, Nasuada."

Terminating the spell and allowing the water to spill through her hands, Arya rocked back to sit on the stone, pondering what she had learned. Worry and fear spun through her, inciting rapid thoughts that had her mind thinking in circles through the situation. Why Eragon had stayed behind… How he'd been captured… What had happened to him… Where he was now. All whipped through her mind, giving her a headache for the sheer complexity and desperation of it. And Saphira was suffering… Eragon must have been tortured near constantly to keep Saphira on the ground. The thought sent a shudder down her spine.

_I will not be able to rest like this,_ Arya thought, standing up. Resentful to her misbehaving thoughts, she left the grotto and began to drift through the shadows of the trees, noting that the sun had fully set and that all was darkness.

She may have been able to quell the restlessness of her body, but Arya was unable to calm her restless mind, and she continued to consider how hopeless everything looked now. With quick, silent steps, she strode through the forest, plunging in and out of the thoughts of random forest animals. Most of their minds were concerned with the trivial, such as gathering food for the night and caring for their young.

Suddenly, a swath of panic and fear swept through the forest, assaulting Arya's mind with mental screams and her ears with the frightened cries of the nocturnal animals. A collection of deer nearby crashed through the trees, prancing about the scattered tree trunks. Bats screeched as they fled from whatever it was that they feared, and owls-ever dignified-hooted disdainfully as they flapped away.

Unsure if whatever was sweeping through the trees was dangerous enough to warrant her fear, Arya delegated to err on the side of caution and crouched low within a nearby bush, peeking out through the branches. As she waited, wishing her sword was at her hip-she'd left it with the Varden-a pain shot through her ears, the result of a sudden spike in pressure. Foreboding stole through her when she realized what it was, and slowly, craned her neck so she was looking upward through the leaves of the bush.

Sure enough, a moment later, a dull thudding met her ears, the flapping wings of an enormous creature. Ruby red flashed across the sky and then was gone. Arya's heart jumped in her chest as she beheld the sight; it was Thorn, Murtagh's dragon.

_Eragon might be on his back!_ The thought jumped to the fore of her mind, prompting her to quickly climb the closest tree, jumping upward from branch to branch, until she reached the top. With one hand on the uppermost branch, she leaned out over the field of trees, looking around in the dark sky for a hint of the red that was Thorn. Despite the darkness, the light of the stars and moon was strong enough that her elven eyes could easily make out the dragon flying toward Helgrind. Best as she could tell, there was only one passenger on the red dragon's back.

Still, she watched anxiously as it wheeled toward the fortress mountain, sure that Murtagh was retrieving Eragon from the Ra'zac's clutches. The thought was no comfort, for Eragon was in store for continuing misery if Murtagh were to take him…

Her fears were pointless; Thorn swept past the rock of Helgrind and flew beyond it, fading into the darkness on its other side. Arya, confused, watched the point where he disappeared for several long moments, and then, deciding that remaining there idly would achieve no purposeful end, descended from the tree and made her way back to the cave.

Contemplating Murtagh's behavior as she was, Arya's footsteps were distracted as she entered the grotto. She didn't immediately notice the figure following her into the cave.

But when she heard a branch snap behind her, she whirled around, her arm already cocked back with a dagger in hand. The creature within the entrance was shocking at best, gruesome and diseased. It wore trousers-that she could tell-and appeared to be covered with a strange, red and green fungus, like some kind of horrible skin rot. Still, she could tell that it was some sort of humanoid. Realizing this, she hesitated, her arm still holding the dagger that waited to be thrown.

The creature froze. As they stared at each other, Arya began to see past her shock and the gunk covering the creature's skin. She saw the brown eyes, the angled yet rugged build of his shoulders and face...

"I told you to stay away," Eragon growled.

The dagger slipped from her fingertips. "Eragon?"

"Am I someone else?"

Arya ignored this and stood, walking slowly to stand before Eragon. His brown eyes followed her approach. Wonder and disbelief filled her; she couldn't believe this was real.

Unsure of the answer to this, and unsure of why she did so, she reached up and touched his cheek, cupping his face in her hands. The dried blood matted to his face cracked under her fingers. Eragon's eyes were unreadable, their brown depths unfathomable. "The candle still burns," she whispered, repeating what she had said after the battle of the burning plains. He was, most assuredly, real as he was standing before her.

It was then that she noticed the dried blood that covered him, alternating red and green splotches. It was also then that she realized that she was touching his face.

Withdrawing her hands as if burned, she stepped back. "Where are you hurt?" she asked anxiously, stepping around him as she cautiously surveyed the layer of muck and cracking blood covering Eragon like a second skin.

"The blood isn't mine," he said, a strange note in his voice that she hadn't heard before. She didn't stop to consider it though.

"Unless I am much mistaken, most of it is," she said, pointing to a patch of green covering his shoulder. "The blood of Ra'zac and Lethrblaka is green," she waved her hand at the mass of red covering his back. "But the blood of humans and elves is red."

Eragon didn't meet her eyes; she noticed that his hands were trembling. "Fine, most of it is mine, but I'm not in any danger."

She stared at him for a long moment, her mouth open with a thousand questions on her tongue. She wanted to ask so many things; why he had stayed behind, what had happened, how he had escaped. The ensuing conversation would likely take some time.

Instead, she said, "There is a stream in the back… Wash the gore from your flesh and than we may talk."

He looked at her, his eyes warm but still unfathomable, a dark, hard undertone to his gaze. This confused her, for never before had she seen such a thing in Eragon's eyes.

The Dragon Rider bowed his head, "As you wish, Arya Drottningu." There was a bitter, sarcastic note to his voice, another thing she had never heard from Eragon. It unnerved her.

Arya watched as Eragon went to the stream, noting that his shoulders seemed broader than she could remember, his head higher than before… He had grown since last she'd seen him. It was not much, but it was evidence that Eragon was at last growing into the full measure of a man.

Eragon looked up, meeting her eyes. "Arya?" he said.

She sat up. "What is it?"

"Bathing tends to imply a semblance of privacy."

Arya jumped to her feet, slightly embarrassed, and left the cave, allowing a small laugh to escape her as she left the cave and leaned against a tree, staring up at the stars. Her amusement was quickly quelled by a myriad of other emotions as she ran over Eragon's arrival in her mind.

Her initial feeling was relief. Eragon was safe! The Varden, elves, and dwarves could continue to fight the Empire, though it was still a hard pressed war. There was hope, for, as Nasuada had said, Eragon _was_ their hope.

Her second was joy. Her hope had returned with the young Dragon Rider, and she felt lighter and free with his escape.

Her third was surprise; how in the world had Eragon escaped? She had thought the circumstances would be near impossible. Imprisoned a mile above the ground in a fortress that was impossible to climb, held captive by creatures far beyond the strength of humans… Arya's curiosity was certainly aroused.

Fourthly, horror. Eragon had been covered in blood, most of it his own… What had happened?

Fifth was confusion… Eragon seemed different, slightly bitter. Perhaps he was withdrawn because of what he had experienced, but it was not entirely the Eragon she knew… The Eragon she knew was a child. He was darker than that child.

Last was anger; _Why did he have to stay behind and create this mess?_ she asked furiously of no on in particular.

"I'm decent," Eragon called from within.

Her heart skipped a beat as she straightened. Taking one last glance at the night sky, she reentered the cave. Eragon was standing bare chested in the center of the grotto, looking around with interest. The dried blood had been washed from his skin, which glistened with moisture, and his hair was dark for the water that dripped from it.

As he turned to look at her, she couldn't help but notice that, while Eragon certainly possessed most of the features of an elf, he could not be taken for a pure-bred one. His face was rougher, and his shoulders broader. A faint blush-she didn't know why, she'd seen such things before-covered Arya's cheekbones when she saw that Eragon was also more muscular than most elven men. He was lean by human standards, but by elven, he was quite large.

"Is something wrong?" Eragon asked after a moment, water dripping across his bare chest.

Arya blinked, raising her eyes from his chest to his eyes. Anger still radiated through her as she walked toward him. "Are you hurt?" she asked, suppressing her fury.

"No."

"Good," Arya said shortly, her anger suddenly spiking. Before she knew what she was doing, she had swept her hand back and, hair whipping about her head, slapped Eragon across the face.

When he turned his head to look at her, he held a hand over the cheek she had struck, his eyes darkening. "What in the blazes was that for?" he demanded.

"For staying in the Empire," she snapped, rigid with rage. "Have you any idea what you risked by staying?"

He furiously opened his mouth to respond, but stopped when Arya held up her hand. "Stop. I have no wish to hear your excuses, and I have no desire to hear you speak the tale twice."

He opened his mouth again, his eyes confused.

She cut him off once more, "You will contact Nasuada and tell her what happened." She turned away from him, the tips of her ears burning. "I should think that her reprimands will be a punishment in themselves."

Eragon was apparently too surprised by her rage to answer, but Arya could not be sure as to the reason of his silence. She could not see his face.

To anyone else, she would have given reasonable, logical reasons for being angry at Eragon, and if they persisted, she would say that she didn't know. But she would be lying, and, inside, she knew it.

For she knew the real reason for her anger.

She was not angry that he had left; she was angry that he'd left her behind, that he'd plunged so blindly into danger.

The misfortune and irony of it struck at her core, the response of the realization that sank into her, filling every fiber of her being. It was something she neither wanted nor needed, something she knew was wrong.

Her face suffused with blood, burning with the intensity of her blush.

_I love him,_ she realized, dazed and not at all pleased by the realization of exactly why she was so angry. The truth clicked within her, reverberating in her heart and setting itself like stone, impossible to ignore, irrevocable and undeniable.

_Barzul._


	8. Reprimands

Eragon bewilderedly stared at Arya's back, his cheek hot and stinging beneath his fingers. She stared resolutely away from him, the set of her shoulders rigid, though he found that her arms appeared to be crossed in front of her chest. Eragon's confusion deepened at this; typically Arya just held her arms at her sides, especially when she was upset… Why was she so angry? Never before had he seen her like this. It didn't repel or upset him-not at all-but it did make her seem more… human. Less alien, unlike the cold, distant Arya he was used to. In the few moments he'd witnessed before where she'd actually shown herself, dropped her guard, he'd fallen in love with her. This was no different. In that moment, Eragon sensed that Arya was incredibly vulnerable, as if a single word he said could influence her forever. It was… strange, to say the least, to see Arya-implacable, aloof Arya-in such a state.

Even confused as he was, it was fairly obvious-slightly less so than a blow over the head with a soapy frying pan-that Arya was furious with him, though the reason for her anger eluded him. _I knew she would be angry…_ Eragon thought. _I just didn't think that she would _show_ it._ Of all the people he knew, Arya was the person he'd _least_ expected to be tremendously angry with him for staying in the Empire.

He suddenly felt a surge of heartache for Saphira; she might know what to do in this situation. Eragon was lost. He could do little but stare at the back of Arya's head, multitudes of different emotions dancing within him. He was confused and surprised as to her anger and eager to be back with the Varden and-more importantly-Saphira. But most of all he was simply relieved that he'd found Arya, relieved that he'd caught her before she'd been captured by Murtagh or the Ra'zac. Seeing her now, after weeks of walking the land alone and being tortured in eerie darkness, was like a breath of fresh air. Her hair was in disarray and her clothes were in dire need of repair, but she was no less beautiful to Eragon than she normally was. His longing and adoration for her rose up in him, and, for a moment, he almost reached out and took her into his arms. His resolve strengthened as he remembered how Arya had reacted to his arrival, the look of wonder and joy he'd seen in her expression. In particular, he remembered how she had touched his face…

But then, as he had when she had touched his face, he remembered that she had turned him away, rejected him time and time again, pushed him away with the assurance that she did not return his affections. Swallowing past the lump in his throat and the pain in his heart, he lowered his arm.

"Arya-" he began.

"Nasuada will be eager to hear that you are safe," Arya interrupted without turning around. "You should not keep her waiting any longer."

Entertaining a fleeting fantasy that Arya harbored secret affections for him and was angry that he'd put himself in danger, Eragon stared at her back, too stunned by her anger to immediately react. A desire to run his fingers through Arya's hair and remove the leaves and other debris briefly passed through his mind. For a moment, he was vaguely entertained by the image of what Arya would do to him if he tried. Broken wrists were the least of the injuries he would likely sustain.

But she was right; he had alert Nasuada to the fact that he was safe. If he didn't… Saphira would come after him when she could fly again, and such a thing would be disastrous with Thorn and Murtagh about. Formidable as Saphira was, she could not stand up to Murtagh's unnatural strength.

Arya studiously kept her back to him as he moved past her to the stream and cupped water in his hands. With a few words, he brought the image of Nasuada's tent to the surface of the sparse water.

Jormundur appeared within, jumping when he saw Eragon. "Shadeslayer!" he exclaimed, his hand going to his heart. "Am I hallucinating or is this more of your magic?"

Eragon smiled lightly. "This is magic."

Jormundur blinked and straightened. "If that be the case… What in the blazes were you thinking, Eragon? What did you mean by staying in Helgrind? And how in the world did you escape the Ra'zac?"

Eragon grimaced. These were the questions he'd been expecting… He was surprised that they hadn't come from Arya. "Jormundur, this is lengthy tale, and I'd like to not have to repeat it. Where is Nasuada?"

Jormundur's face was stern. "_Lady_ Nasuada is out conducting her duties. I believe she is attempting to convince Saphira not to fly off on a foolish mission to rescue you."

Eragon stiffened, alarmed. "Summon her as quickly as possible; both of them. Saphira cannot come after me right now." Jormundur didn't move right away. Eragon swore and said, "Thorn and Murtagh are hunting me right now! Saphira would just give me away."

Seeming to grasp the implications, Jormundur dashed from the tent.

"You should learn to master your tongue," Arya said at his shoulder, causing him to jump. "Was it really necessary to swear at the poor man?"

Eragon turned his head to look at her, though she didn't meet his eyes. His heart seemed to break at the sight of her face; she was just so beautiful…

"Are you still angry with me?" he asked.

She didn't answer, but stared unswervingly at the water cupped in Eragon's hands, which was beginning to drain through his fingers. Quickly, Eragon cast a spell to keep it within his hands; the drop in his strength was nearly unnoticeable. When he looked back up, he found that Arya had swept her hair to one side, concealing her face from his with a veil of black locks. Eragon gritted his teeth in frustration, turning his attention back to the scrying water.

Several minutes passed, but no one appeared in the water, and Arya never once looked at him.

"I would have never thought that you would be so petty as to give the 'silent treatment,'" Eragon said, too angry to give notice to courtesy. It didn't phase him, the knowledge that he would never had dared speak those words to Arya a month before. Skyrask was right; the Ra'zac had hardened him. His anger only intensified with the realization.

Arya twitched, but didn't say anything for a long moment. "You put my entire race-nay, your own as well-at risk by foolishly deciding to remain in the Empire, Eragon. Do not expect me to forgive you so quickly."

Eragon swallowed, suddenly grasping the full consequences of what he had decided to do… Arya was right, no matter what way it was put. Sloan might have deserved mercy-or death, it mattered little which at this point-but had the traitorous butcher really been worth risking his own capture or death at the hands of Galbatorix? It might have been the right thing to do, sparing Sloan, but it had definitely not been the _smart_ thing.

_I can't ignore my heart,_ Eragon thought. _But I have to start thinking more logically, like Oromis keeps saying… It's like he said, 'too many problems in this world are caused by men with good intentions but clouded minds'… He was right. I had good intentions-the best, if I can say so-but I didn't consider the trouble I would cause… It was a foolishly considered thing._ He considered Skyrask's dying words once more, resentment swelling in him when he realized just how much influence the Ra'zac had truly had on his life. _I won't make the same mistake again._

He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Nasuada rushed into the room, her green dress swirling about her legs before she came to a stop. She looked to be tired and careworn, and white bandages wound up her arms, in heavy contrast with her dark skin.

"Eragon!" she exclaimed, her hand going to her heart as she sank into a nearby chair, breathing heavily. "We thought you'd been captured!"

"I was."

She exhaled heavily. "Thank Gokukara you escaped… We were sure that we would have to fight on without you."

"Worry no longer."

Nasuada's gaze flicked between Arya and Eragon. "Arya, did you free him?"

Arya shifted, her face still hidden from Eragon. "Nay, I know not how he escaped. Nor how he was captured."

Nasuada turned her eyes to Eragon. "I would like to hear this tale, but first…" Her expression became angry. "What in the blazes do you think you were doing, staying in the Empire? Do you have any idea what you risked?"

Eragon winced, glancing at Arya. "I did not think long enough to consider the consequences at the time… But I am aware now."

"Didn't think!" Nasuada exclaimed. "I think that was evident enough to all of us! Why in Angvard's name did you stay in the first place? The reasons Saphira gave me are paltry. If they are your real reasons, you are more a fool than anyone ever thought!"

Eragon bristled. "I'm sorry I upset you, but I had my reasons, and I would prefer not to give them in this fashion."

Nasuada seemed to calm. "You must explain them to me when you arrive."

"As you wish," he said. "How were you hurt? Did someone attack you? Why haven't any of Du Vrangr Gata healed you?"

"I ordered them to leave me alone. And that _I_ will explain when you arrive." Eragon nodded, swallowing his questions. As Nasuada shifted forward in her chair and opened her mouth to speak, Saphira's head snaked through the entrance flap, her brilliant scales refracting the light, dotting the interior of the tent with multitudes of tiny blue-and-purple sparks.

One, sparkling sapphire eye blinked slowly, showing Eragon just how truly angry she was. Swallowing hard in his guilt, he leaned closer to the water and quietly said, "I missed you…" It was more true than almost anything he'd ever spoken. The pain and loneliness he'd endured over the past two weeks would have been completely alleviated by her presence… He missed Saphira immensely.

Saphira blinked once, more slowly this time.

"I suppose it falls to me to relay her words," Nasuada said while shifting in her chair, moving the piece of furniture further away from Saphira's smoking nostrils. "She wants to know if you're alright."

"I'm fine," he said hollowly, wanting neither Nasuada nor Arya to be made aware of the true anguish within him. He leaned closer still to the surface of the water in his hands, as if he could plunge through it and fall into the tent on the other side. There, at least, he could have the comfort of someone who cared. There, at least, he would have Saphira and he would not be so alone.

_I'm not exactly alone,_ he thought, glancing at the black veil that Arya maintained between them. _But the company is less than cordial._

Nasuada stirred again. "She says you're lying." Arya twitched when she said this, and, for a moment, her green eyes met Eragon's, but the glance was so short-lived that Eragon barely even noticed that she had moved.

Eragon didn't flinch. "Maybe I am," he said, meeting Saphira's eye and glancing meaningfully at their two spectators. "How are you, Saphira?"

She blinked again.

"She says she is as fit as ever," Nasuada relayed. Then, adjusting her dress, she said, "Eragon, Saphira is bent on flying off and retrieving you, no how eloquent my pleas to the contrary. Can you convince her otherwise?" Saphira snorted, causing Nasuada to cough as a cloud of smoke from the dragon's nostrils enveloped her.

Eragon tensed. "Saphira, you must stay away, do you understand? Murtagh and Thorn are hunting me, you would only be captured."

A thin stream of fire jetted from Saphira's nostrils. Nasuada yelped and leapt up, swatting the smoking hem of her dress. When she was sure that her garment was in no further danger, she slumped back in her chair. "In case you couldn't guess, she has a certain amount of disdain for that last comment."

"Saphira, I can escape them as long as I'm on the ground… If you came for me, it would only give us away and then we would both be captured. Please, Saphira, just… stay where you are, I'll come as quickly as I can."

Saphira stared at him with a piercing blue eye for one, long moment, and then blinked.

Nasuada gave a sigh of relief. "She agrees, but has several… Conditions that you will not learn of until you return."

Eragon sighed. "Thank you, Saphira."

Nasuada looked between Eragon and Arya once more before falling on Arya. "How long until you rejoin us?"

"I do not know," Arya said. "At least a week, if we are fortunate. If further difficulties arise, it could be several, perhaps even a month."

Nasuada groaned her frustration. "I suppose that it can't be helped. I expect you to contact me at least once a day."

"We may not always have the privacy we need to work magic."

"Find a way to get it. I need to know where you two are and whether you're safe."

Arya was silent a moment. When she spoke, there was a strange note in her voice. "If I can, I will do as you ask, but not if it puts Eragon in danger."

Nasuada nodded imperiously. "Agreed."

"If you're done talking about me as if I'm not here…" Eragon said, surprising himself.

Nasuada glanced at him strangely. "Is something wrong, Eragon?"

Eragon blinked tiredly. "No, my Lady… I am weary. Forgive my tongue."

"For now," Nasauda said, regarding him with upraised eyebrows. Shifting in her chair, she said, "I expect a full account of this adventure when you return."

"And you shall have it," Eragon replied.

Nasuada watched him a moment more. "Than I bid you good night."

Eragon nodded and looked to Saphira. They stared into each other's eyes for a long moment. "I'm sorry," he said finally.

Her eyes softened.

Watching her a moment more, he said. "Be safe." And then terminated the spell. Water trickled through his fingers as he released the magic, leaving the cave strangely quiet. Eragon, feeling as if he was being crushed by the force of his loneliness, stared into the gurgling stream, wishing he could lose himself in the bubbling current. Why was everything opposed to him? Garrow had been killed… Brom had likewise been slain… His home had been destroyed… His father was Morzan, a fate that seemed worse than death. And everyone in Alagaesia seemed to be relying on him to defeat foes that he felt he had no chance of besting.

And, it seemed, Arya hated him now. He glanced at her, wondering what was going on behind those emerald eyes.

Noticing his gaze, Arya stood. "There is food over there," she said, pointing to an upraised rock on which a variety of edible plants rested. "Partake if you so desire." Without looking at him or saying anything else, she made her way to the stone and began picking at several of the plants, delicately slipping them between her lush lips. Eragon uneasily walked to her and sat down beside her. As he began to eat, Arya scooted away from him, keeping herself half turned away from him.

Slowly chewing on the bitter tasting leaves, Eragon thought, _I must have offended her more than I thought… I've never seen her like this. I didn't even think she was _capable_ of acting like this…_ It seemed terribly conflicting with the etiquette that the elves normally practiced.

Standing up, Eragon circled around Arya and sat on his knees in front of her. She froze, craning her neck downward and averting her gaze from his, casting her eyes to stare at her lap. Her black hair tumbled about her head as she did, hiding her face from view but leaving the points of her ears exposed. With some surprise, Eragon saw that her hands were trembling. A spark of fear and shame ignited within him. None of this behavior was like her. _What have I done?_

Touching his own lips, he said in the ancient language, "Arya Svit-Kona, I cry your pardon. I did not realize how much strife I would cause by staying behind, and I genuinely believed I was doing the right thing."

She didn't answer. Eragon was once again struck with the urge to run his hands through her hair, to comb free the small twigs and leaves stuck in her tresses. He wondered how she didn't notice them.

"Arya-"

"I heard you the first time, Eragon," she said, a strange note in her voice when she spoke his name. "But do not be so foolish as to think a simple apology will earn my forgiveness. The repercussions of what you did could-and still may-affect the course of history for centuries to come."

Eragon blinked, ashamed. "I thought I was doing the right thing," he repeated weakly.

Arya laughed bitterly, standing up and turning away from him again. "And this is supposed to be a comfort? You are more foolish than you know. It would have been better if you had known it was the wrong thing… At least then we could know that you were not deluded."

"You don't even know why I stayed," Eragon growled, suddenly angry as he leapt to his feet.

"You are right. I do not. And for now, I have no desire to."

Eragon snapped. "I never would have thought you could be so vindictive, Arya. Maybe I did risk my life and my mission-and for a good cause-but that's my decision to make, not yours. I am safe now, am I not?"

"Do not be so sure," Arya said in a dangerous voice, rounding on him. Her green eyes had a perilous light to them as she stared up into his. "And do not think it was a decision that affects only you! _Your life_ is bound to almost all the lives in Alagaesia! _Every decision_ you make can have considerable and earth-shattering consequences. Alagaesia is relying on you. The very idea of _freedom_ relies on you!"

"I _know_ that!" Eragon exploded, unable to process the astonishment that he'd affected Arya so deeply that she was raising her voice at him. "Do you think I enjoy it? I _hate_ it! I didn't choose this life, it chose me!" His voice rose, "Literally! I _know_ what my responsibilities are, but that doesn't mean I will put myself above the law. I am only _human."_ His voice took on a bitter note. "I cannot ignore my heart, and I have not. I won't make myself both the judge and the executioner. That is not my right."

"What in Aiedail's name are you talking about?"

"The reason I stayed!" Eragon shouted.

Arya resolutely turned her back to him, her arms folding once more. Eragon was left staring at her back, near-panting and confused.

"Why are you so angry?" he asked more quietly, most of his anger draining away. "What have I done to offend you so?"

Arya said nothing, allowing the silence to stretch on for so long that Eragon began to wonder if she was going to answer at all. When his doubt hardened into certainty, she spoke, her voice so soft and quiet that even Eragon had trouble hearing it.

"You have offended me," she whispered. "In the deepest way possible. It is unlikely that I shall ever forgive you, so do not be surprised if you begin to find my company less than amenable."

Eragon stared at her blankly, uncomprehending. "I don't know what you mean."

Arya laughed lightly, the sound bitter and mocking. "Of course you do not… You more blind than I had originally thought." Stiffly, she turned and strode toward the stream. "Now, if you would excuse me, I would like some privacy. I wish to wash the dirt and filth from my skin."

Simmering with anger and hopelessly confused, Eragon turned away from her with a disgusted snort and stormed toward the entrance to the grotto. Just before he exited, Arya called his name, almost as an afterthought.

Looking over his shoulder, Eragon froze, his heart jumping in his chest as his stomach flipped. Arya had been in the process of disrobing when she'd called his name, and even now was standing by the stream, her shirt half pulled off in her hands, revealing the creamy expanse of white skin stretched taut over the slender curve of her lower abdomen. Eragon, exhibiting a force of will and accomplishing the near impossible, quickly averted his eyes from the exposed section of her body.

"If you run off again," Arya warned. "Murtagh and Thorn will be the least of your worries."

Eragon hesitated in the doorway only a moment more before stepping outside, muttering, "Don't tempt me."

What exactly he was referring to, he wasn't sure.


	9. Musing

Rough stones dug into Arya's back as she tried to find a comfortable position lying down in the cave. It seemed an impossible task-and likely was-for she had no form of bedding to use and the floor was coarse and uneven. Not that it particularly mattered at this point in time. Even in these conditions, it would have been easy for Arya to sleep, for she had rested in far more physically uncomfortable places before. But, alas, the inadequate bedding barely had bearing on her troubled mind.

_I love him,_ she dazedly repeated to herself, glancing over at the object of her affections. Eragon was sleeping in the corner furthest from her, arms acting as a pillow behind his head. His bare, muscled chest slowly rose and fell with his soft breathing. He looked at peace, though that was likely only because he'd cast a spell on himself for dreamless sleep… Arya felt a pain within her that Eragon could fear his own dreams.

Blood flooded her face once more as she considered the Dragon Rider, her reaction to the many and confused feelings she felt for the boy. For that was what he was, was he not? A boy. Young and inexperienced, lacking in years and wisdom.

_How did this happen?_ Arya asked herself-not for the first time-as she sat up and leaned against the wall, hugging her knees. It seemed impossible that she had fallen in love with Eragon. She had always felt some affection for him, but… She had never thought it would have gone this far.

And it was a disaster, for, as she had thought before, Eragon was a boy, a child. How could she fall in love with a child? Shame filled her. It was _wrong_. How could she even want someone as young as Eragon in that way? It was incredibly improper, especially for an elven princess and ambassador. Not only that, but Eragon was a Dragon Rider, and she could not afford to distract him… Nor herself. She was important as well, and could not put aside her duties for the sake of a romantic relationship. Neither could he, no matter how many times he tried to initiate one.

Arya clamped her lips together, hugging her knees to her chest more tightly while she continued to stare at Eragon's sleeping form. That was another source of pain for her; Eragon's wayward affections. As he was a boy, his… fondness of her could be nothing more than a boyish fantasy, could it not? It most certainly wasn't love. While she… may be willing-repulsive and wrong as it was-to take advantage of that, to steal her own iota of happiness, it would hurt her that much more when Eragon finally found someone he actually _did_ love. And, as much as she wanted to end her own loneliness, she was not about to steal the possible love from Eragon that he might feel for_someone_-but never her-eventually. She couldn't, _wouldn't,_ do that to him. It would be wrong in an even worse situation.

Filled with uncertainty, Arya slowly unfolded herself and hesitantly crawled to Eragon's side, staring at him all the while. The sight of his face-seemingly more handsome to her than it had been before-set her heart swimming with untold and forbidden emotions. The peaceful, serene expression on his face made her feel contentment and longing in the same instant, a contrary occurrence that she would have thought impossible before.

Could she stay away, maybe dispel the feelings she had for him? Perhaps, perhaps not… But it made little difference, for her path was set and clear. She had no choice in the matter. Arya knew that if her friendship with Eragon continued as it had, she would, at some time or another, be unable to resist the feelings she had for him. She would fall into his waiting-but false-embrace, and for brief moments of time, she might even be happy. But Eragon could never love her, and the thought made Arya emit an anguished sob. Even if he could, Arya had other, larger responsibilities, responsibilities that forced her to ignore her own happiness and comfort.

She would have to ignore him, scorn him, and otherwise be cruel and uncaring to Eragon in any way she could. It might push him away, make him forget his false feelings for her, and if it didn't, Arya wouldn't be close enough to be able to give in, as she no doubt would if their friendship continued.

_Our friendship ends now,_ Arya thought with anguish, raising her hand so it hovered over Eragon's face. She forced herself to remain silent so she didn't wake the Dragon Rider, but could do nothing about the silent tears that streamed down her face. How could fate be so cruel? How had she been so foolish? It seemed that she was doomed to sorrow and torment.

Longing filled her as she traced the angle of Eragon's cheek with the tips of her fingers, never touching him. Her hand trembled, and her will crumbled. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to silently stroke her hand across Eragon's jaw.

_Wrong, Arya, it is wrong!_ she thought, jerking her hands back and restraining them behind her back. She stood to relieve herself of any further temptation. Standing there, she stared longingly down at Eragon's face, wishing things might be different. Never, in her century of life, had she ever been so confused. It made her uncertain, which only deepened her confusion. Always before, she had know what had to be done, and had easily been able to consign herself to that and even make those goals her desires… She was not able to do so with this.

_Duty before happiness,_ Arya stated submissively in her mind, unable to quell her own pain, confusion, and desire. She stared down at Eragon a moment more.

_I… I have to get away from here… Just for a few moments…_ Stubbornly turning away from the Dragon Rider, Arya slipped from the cave, taking one last glance at Eragon's peacefully sleeping face.

And, for perhaps the first time in decades, she girlishly wished that Evandar was still alive, just so her father could hold her while she cried. 


	10. Fleeing the Hills

"Shurtugal, it is morning, and we must go." These words pervaded Eragon's consciousness, slowly pulling him from the dark, featureless oblivion of his dreamless sleep. Shaking off some of the lethargy, he cursed silently, wishing the spell he had cast on himself for dreamless sleep hadn't been quite so effective. It was like the deep sleep of a human, and made him oblivious and completely unaware of his surroundings. It also made it difficult to wake.

So he discovered as he pried his heavy eyelids open, blinking groggily in the light. He sat up slowly, groaning at the pain in his back from sleeping on stone. The small grotto was awash with the faint sunlight of early morning, and the singing of birds drifted in through the craggy doorway, filling the space with the cheerful songs of the creatures' greeting to the new day. Looking around, he saw that Arya was standing in a shadow near the opposite wall, her green eyes turned away from him. There was something in her hands, but he could not tell what it was, for her body was turned away from him as well. Her black hair tumbled about her face, veiling it once more from view. The only bit of her skin that he could see was the smooth, white skin sheathing her slender neck, and while the sight might have transfixed him once-and it still did, to a degree-his overriding feeling was frustration.

_She's still angry with me,_ Eragon thought grimly, wondering how he was going to survive if Arya wouldn't even _look_at him. He could already feel the cold fingers of hopelessness on his heart, the response to the fact that Arya now seemed to hate him. Before he had gone to sleep the previous night, she had seemed to be determined to remain angry with him and had done no more than answer direct questions. It would seem she was going to do the same today.

"Good morning," he said hopefully, stretching as he stood.

She didn't answer with words, but raised the object in her hands and threw it at him. Eragon flinched and almost ducked, but then realized it was a shirt. A simple, brown woolen shirt, but a shirt just the same. It was a good thing to have-he hadn't been looking forward to traversing half Alagaesia bare-chested, even in the summer-but it aroused more curiosity than relief.

"Where did you get this?" he asked, holding it up.

He caught a flash of green as Arya glanced at him. "I stole it from a farmhouse nearby," she said coldly. "Do you find it displeasing, Shurtugal?"

Eragon winced. He hadn't expected that she was so angry as to resent to say even his name.

"You stole it?" he asked, not surprised, but curious.

"I will not repeat myself," Arya snapped, her green eyes flashing toward him once again. This time, they stayed, but remained fixed on his chest, not his face. "Shurtugal, put the shirt on or do not," she said, averting her eyes once more. "We have not the time to tarry."

"I'll wear it, thank you," he said quickly, pulling the shirt on over his head. It was scratchy and slightly large, but better than nothing. He knew better than to complain to Arya, however.

Still feeling slightly sleepy, he strode to the stream and splashed his face with the cold water, thereafter taking a sip. When he stood, he felt rejuvenated and ready to face the day, to resume his journey back to the Varden and put the new horrors of his past behind him. He walked to Arya's side and said, "Let us be off… The day is wasting."

Arya brushed her hair between herself and Eragon, but said nothing.

"After you," he said, indicating her to go first through the exit. Without so much as a backward glance, she elbowed her way past him, knocking him backward several feet as she strode from cave.

_Yes,_ Eragon sighed. _She is_very_angry._ In all honesty, he was a little afraid, and more then a little shocked, of Arya's anger. He'd never seen her like this before, and hoped that he never would again. He didn't like the impassable gulf that had grown-seemingly instantly-between them.

He hurried after her, still running this new development through his mind.

The forest was almost cheerful in appearance, filled with a faint, gold-red light of the dawn. The rosy light glistened on the thin sheen of dew covering the leaves and grass. Birds flitted between the tree trunks, several of them flying quite close to Arya's head, and squirrels and other such critters chattered as they leapt from branch to branch. Above, the sky was blue and almost entirely clear, interrupted only by downy strips of thin clouds. The entire scene was horribly conflicting with Eragon's mood-ever more so with Arya's cold countenance-and he wished, for a brief moment, that it was dark and rainy, perhaps even storming. It would not have made difference.

Entertaining his morose thoughts, Eragon trotted to Arya's side. She slowed only enough for him to catch up, then spread her legs into a run. Eragon, expecting this, kept up easily. He was somewhat surprised that he did not have to pace himself so that Arya might keep up with him, for he had longer legs. It seemed more like Arya was slowing herself down so the opposite might be possible. She was swift indeed, her run aggressive as a predator's. It was almost as if she were running from something. Even so, he said nothing, knowing he would get no answer to any questions he happened to voice. His frustration continued to deepen as the angry silence lengthened.

Trees, bushes, and other such plants flew by them in a brown and green blur, occasionally interrupted by the vibrant-or conversely dull-colors of living and dying flowers. Whenever Eragon saw these, he thought briefly of snatching them and presenting them to Arya as a way of apology, but thought better of it, though he was unsure if "better" actually _was_ better. She _had_, after all, said herself that it was unlikely she would ever forgive him.

After a brief time, Arya started to glance at him occasionally, but then stopped when she gave a spurt of sudden speed and then slowed again, putting herself a good ten or fifteen feet in front of him. Eragon gritted his teeth, half angry and half sad that she was putting such distance-both figuratively and literally-between them. Was she_that_ angry at him? Or was she just afraid that he would attempt to woo her again? Or was there some other reason? Whatever her motives, Arya was now hurting Eragon in a way that was explicitly painful. He quite honestly would have rather been back in the Ra'zac's clutches, or take on Durza's curse once more.

It was not something he was going to endure without reason.

Breath hissing between clenched teeth, Eragon pumped his legs savagely to catch up with the elf, disregarding all subtlety. He was going to get some answers.

Working laboriously, he managed to draw level with her, thankful that they hadn't been running long enough to wind him, which, admittedly, would take several hours because of his elven endurance.

"Arya," he began, his anger melting away when he looked into her emerald eyes. "Please tell me why you are angry, what I did." She didn't answer, but looked away. Eragon continued, "I have never seen you like this, Arya. It worries me."

"I did not ask for your concern, Shurtugal," she said coldly.

"You have it anyway," he retorted. "Like it or not, I _do_ care for you, and I would not have you suffer if I have the power to help."

She started to pull ahead slightly, her black hair whipping out behind her, the look on her face speaking for itself.

"I meant what I said before," he called. "I will not pursue you without your consent."

She remained resolutely silent, still continuing forward.

"Arya," he began heatedly. "I've never known you to run away from your problems, nor confrontation. Why now?"

"That is none of your concern," she replied, pulling ahead.

"What have I done to you?" he shouted to her. "And how am I to make amends if you won't tell me how I have offended you?"

She refused to answer, pulling even further ahead. Eragon wondered if she intended to remain so stubbornly distant the entire journey. The thought was not a pleasant one, and he intended to correct it before it became a reality. He chased after her, moving so quickly that he thought his shirt might be starting to rip for his pumping arms.

She stayed ahead for a time, leading a long, irritating chase winding around trees and through the underbrush, always heading southward. But she could not-and, more importantly, would not-stay ahead forever. She had responsibilities to him.

But this was not why he caught up with her. Eventually, once he was close enough, he grabbed her arm and wrenched her to a stop, attempting to halt himself. He miscalculated their reckless, breakneck pace, however, and they both slid across the slippery, loose leaves covering the forest floor like a layered rug, sending them rolling across the ground. All the world around him turned to a meaningless blur as they rolled. All except, that is, Arya's face, which dominated the center of his vision as they tumbled across the ground, arms and legs intertwining chaotically like some kind of mindless dance. She looked surprised, angry, and even a little afraid as they rolled. Eragon was not ignorant to how their bodies tangled together with the fall, and they rolled one over top the other, pressing each other into the ground in turn.

Eventually, the came to a stop on the ground with Eragon on the bottom, Arya splayed across his chest. Eragon was not ignorant of how physically close they were, and neither was he unaware of the fact that his arms were wrapped around her, hands pressing into the curve of her back. Arya's own arms were under his, her delicate hands gripping his shirt. Their legs were tangled in such a way that made Eragon immediately turn red.

When it seemed they had both recovered their senses, Eragon flinched, sure that Arya was going to strike him, or at the very least break his arms, considering he had subconsciously pulled her tighter against his chest. He could, after all, heal them quite easily, so it would, by no means, cripple their return journey.

What took him by surprise was the fact that she didn't. She didn't even stiffen, but relaxed against him, her fingers twining in the folds of his overlarge shirt. Her expression was unfathomable, devoid of anger and filled with uncertainty, a touch of fear, and a number of emotions he could not identify, for he could not recall ever having seen them on an elf's face before. Her eyes stared down at him, filled with questions, questions he could not answer because he could never get her to ask them. As he stared up at her, electrically aware of her soft form pressing down on his, a warmth grew in his chest, a feeling of bliss and wholeness. In that moment, the only missing piece was Saphira.

Her green eyes flicked down his neck to his arms with some uncertainty before coming back to his face. In her bottomless eyes, he could see the reflection of his own face, and saw the questions in it, the hopeful, yet askance expression. He was asking for one thing; her consent.

Her face hardened then, and she extricated herself from Eragon's embrace faster then he would have thought possible, jumping away from him as if his touch burned her. She turned and began to walk south, leaving him lying frustrated and heartbroken on the forest floor. Eragon was so pained by her new denial that he couldn't move for a full minute, and, were he in any safe location, would not have for likely a full day.

As it was, he wearily and painfully got to his feet and set after her, still remembering how it was that they had ended up in that awkward position. Anger began to simmer within him; why wouldn't she just _tell_ him what the problem was? And what right did she have to be angry at him if she wasn't going to tell him why?

When he caught up with her, he caught her arm, forcing her to stop. He opened his mouth and began to speak, but flinched and froze when Arya reacted violently to what he had done.

One of her hands snapped upward, catching him in the arm and forcing him to release his grip, lest she break his wrist. Were he entirely human, he would not have been quick enough to react and likely would have lost his hand.

Her other hand shot forward to his throat, fingers rigidly extended, effective-if not as sharp-as any knife. Thankfully, she stopped short, her quivering hand half an inch from Eragon's throat. Eragon swallowed and didn't move. He wasn't afraid, but he didn't want to alienate Arya further but defending himself. He would have stabbed himself through the heart before laying a hand on her in violence.

After a moment, Arya pulled back, a pain Eragon did not understand mingling with the other myriad emotions on her face. "Unless you intend further affront, Shurtugal," she said slowly. "Do not presume to breach etiquette and address me as you have done again." She then turned and strode away.

Now Eragon was angry. _"I_ breached etiquette!" he shouted. "How can you even _think_ you have the right to lecture me about manners right now? You almost killed me just now!" Arya faltered then-surprising Eragon; he'd never seen her stumble before-and made a small sound, but said nothing. Eragon continued his ranting, "You won't even _talk_ to me, Arya. I'm trying to make amends, and you barely even acknowledge my presence." Eragon's anger was drifting away, replaced by helpless pain. Arya stood stiffly with her back to him, her hands shaking. "Please, Arya" Eragon said quietly, "Just tell me what I've done. I will do whatever you ask, whatever you want, to atone for my offense. Just tell me my crime."

Arya didn't move, but her head tilted upward, her black hair tumbling and spilling about her shoulders and back, as if she was looking at the sky in askance. This was a peculiar thing, for Eragon had previously thought that men did that action in order to ask the gods, "Why me?" But, obviously, Arya, as an elf, did not believe in gods, so the gesture must have been something else. Perhaps it was universal of all sentient beings to turn their eyes heavenward to search for answers to impossible questions.

This was a minor thought in his head, inconsequential, for most of his mind was focused on the beautiful woman in front of him, waiting for her answer. Minutes slowly crawled by, and Eragon still said nothing, sure that if he did, it would only push Arya further away. This wait might have torture, but it was necessary. It was easy too; Eragon would have waited far longer for Arya. He would wait a millennia, and if he had to, a millennia more.

After all, he had forever, didn't he? Angela had said something of the sort in her prophecy.

"My anger," she said finally, her voice heavy and reluctant. "Is not directed at you, Eragon, but myself. You may never learn the reason, lest it destroy us both."

Eragon opened his mouth, but no words were forthcoming. His mind was blank, empty as shock and astonishment coursed through him, wiping him clean of every thought. He didn't know _what_ to think, nor what to say.

"But… why-?"

"Why am I treating you as I have?" she said, rolling her head to the side as she continued to look at the sky. "Because… It is necessary. It is the only way. I have no choice."

Eragon was still reeling, but he had sense enough to remember his many discussions with Oromis. "There is always choice, there is always at least two ways of doing things," Eragon said, trying to make her understand-with the tone of his voice alone-how much he _needed_ her. "Let me help you find the other."

"No," Arya said shortly. "No, I cannot do that. And, in this, I shall not be moved… Do not waste your words on me, Eragon, nor your affections, for both shall get you nowhere."

Eragon didn't know what to say: he was speechless.

Arya lowered her head, the points of her ears shifting out from underneath her hair. "Now, let us be off, Shurtugal," she said, reverting to her distant, cold tone. "We have little time, and many leagues to traverse."

She strode forward, leaving Eragon standing numbly, so full of pain and confused emotions that he could neither sort them out nor identify their tone or purpose. He blinked and followed Arya, allowing the ties to his hear to lead him, wishing, for a moment, that the Ra'zac still held him in their clutches. That torture was nothing compared to this, as insignificant as a stubbed toe.

Now, as they ran through the forest, Arya was not the only one who was silent.

In his numb haze, Eragon was barely aware of the passing time as they came to the edge of the forest, nor the plain of hills stretching for several miles before them. It was there that Arya stopped so suddenly that Eragon collided with her back.

"Sorry," he said quietly, knowing she wasn't going to answer.

She didn't.

Arya looked around, her angled eyes narrowed as if she were searching for something. "Think you that it would be less perilous to circle around these hills?"

"It would take hours," Eragon said. "Let's just cross… It will only take a few minutes."

Arya refused to look at him. "What of Thorn and Murtagh? It will not be difficult for them to see us crossing this expanse."

"We will be swift," Eragon said impatiently. All he really wanted at this point was to return to Saphira as quickly as possible.

Arya was silent for a moment. "Very well."

With that, she instantly broke into a run, Eragon following in her wake as they began to cross the hills. Looking to the east, Eragon thought he saw a flash of brilliant white light, as if the sun were reflecting off a mirror. He felt a pang in his heart when he remembered Brom's tomb, sure that was what he was seeing. He had vowed to return, and he would… But he couldn't yet. It was too dangerous.

Still, it was difficult to take his eyes off the flash, and Eragon stared at if for some time as they crossed the hills, and consequently nearly lost his footing several times. He knew he should turn his eyes ahead, but Arya was in front of him, and he could scarcely bear to look at her right now.

But it was good he didn't, for as he watched, a large, red blur appeared over the flash, growing in size with every passing second. Eragon abruptly stopped and squinted at the object, apprehensive of what he might find.

"Arya…" he said quietly, descrying large, wine red wings on the blur.

The elf had already traveled some hundred yards ahead, oblivious to his sudden halt, but returned to his side quickly when she noticed that he wasn't there. She came to a stop before him, her green eyes focusing on something above Eragon's shoulder.

"Shurtugal, why do you stop?" she asked, sounding irritated. "We haven't the time for delays, and much less amidst these barren hills."

Eragon didn't answer her question orally, but rather pointed at the red dragon flapping toward them. Arya turned and stiffened, her shoulders going rigid.

"Do we have the time to cross the remainder of the plain?" she asked quickly.

Eragon tore his eyes from Thorn's approaching figure and looked around. His heart quickened at what he found.

"No," he said, turning his gaze northward once more. "We have to get back under the cover of the trees… We're too exposed on these hills."

Arya hesitated and looked at him, her green eyes sharp and brooding. Eragon was unsure what to make of this, particularly in their current situation. Nothing was making a tremendous amount of sense anymore, but he knew one thing.

He wasn't going to risk Arya's life.

"Go," he said, placing his hand on the small of her back and applying a tiny amount of pressure. With his urging, they broke into a run back the way they had come, side by side, shoulder to shoulder. So close were they that Arya's hair kept tickling Eragon's nose. Arya, seeming to remember herself, shrugged his hand away, but didn't move from his side, and he was glad. This was no time for petty grudges. He was glad that Arya still had the presence of mind and reason to recognize that.

As they ran, Eragon continually glanced eastward toward Thorn and his Rider, and fear coiled in his gut when he realized that he and Arya were not going to make it. Thorn's path would likely bring him directly over the pair of them, and-if Murtagh's show of strength at the Battle of the Burning Plains was any indication-they would be easily captured.

Eragon returned his hand to Arya's back, applying greater pressure, encouraging her to go faster. "Go, Arya. You are faster than I, and there is no need to risk both our lives."

Emerald eyes glared at him over her slim shoulder, and Eragon felt the tension in the muscles of her back underneath his hand. She didn't argue with him, but neither did she do as he had suggested. If he hadn't known better, Eragon would have guessed that she hadn't heard him at all.

"Arya, just go. This is no time for grudges and obstinacy." He applied more pressure to her back. "Go. I'll be right behind you."

He wondered if she had detected his lie, for he had no idea whether he was going to be directly behind her much longer or not.

Eragon silently offered thanks to the gods when Arya gave a brisk nod and surged forward, leaving him well behind. With something of fervor, he watched her sprint up and down the hills before him, monitoring the distance she had until safety and paying little attention to his own. Truth be told, he was not entirely sure that they were in any immediate danger yet. He was unsure as to whether or not Murtagh or Thorn had spotted them yet.

His uncertainty was quickly dispelled.

_"Eragon!"_ Murtagh cried, his magically intensified voice projecting over the hills, creating distant echoes from the sandstone rises in the east. "I see you there, Eragon, running across the hills like a frightened rabbit! Do you not have the courage to face me?"

Eragon did not think it wise to respond, so he didn't. Instead, he quickened his pace to reckless levels, releasing a sigh of relief when he saw Arya reach the cover of the trees. _She's safe…_ he thought, feeling as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. _At least for now._ For a brief moment, he considered surrendering to Murtagh just so Arya would be safe, but he disregarded the option as poorly considered. Arya would never appreciate that particular path, were he to choose it.

Eragon stumbled as a constrictive force tightened around his thighs, squeezing the muscles so tightly that he could not move. He found himself frozen, halfway down a hill, tugging at his legs as if they were stuck in a particularly deep patch of mud. With some urgency, he quickly cast a counter spell, entertaining no thought of besting Murtagh, but unsure of what else to do.

Energy began to surge out of Eragon at an immense rate, draining from his body so violently that he shuddered. He hadn't expected fighting Murtagh's magic to be so demanding. His heart stuttered and began beating at a painful speed, the response to the sudden panic that set Eragon's insides roiling.

An alien mind touched his own, echoing with multitudes of voices that raged beneath the surface, a chorus of indistinct whispers. It was not an invasive touch, but more a meeting of minds, a deeper level of communication.

_Do not resist, Eragon,_ Murtagh said, his mental voice tired and angry at the same time. _You can't beat me. All you'll do is exhaust yourself._

Eragon tugged futilely at his legs, the spell still steadily depleting him of energy. _Then let me go, Murtagh!_ Eragon snarled, retaliating with a mental jab. Murtagh easily blocked the blow.

_You know I can't do that,_ Murtagh answered, his voice sad. _Galbatorix made sure of that. I have no choice in the matter._

_There is always a choice!_ Eragon spat. _You just have to learn to find it._

_That may be true, but the time I don't have._

A second mind touched Eragon, this one solemn and sad, but filled with a deeply ingrained anger. Eragon was sure that he had never touched this mind before, but it's archaic structure betrayed a familiarity that made Eragon instantly aware of its identity.

_Where is Saphira?_ Thorn asked. _Where is she-of-the-blue-scales-and-fierce-temper?_

_If you think I'm going to tell you, you are sorely mistaken._

_It doesn't matter,_ Murtagh said. _She will come for him… She has done it before._

_Much as I wish this conflict to end,_ Thorn said slowly. _I would not have Saphira doomed to the same slavery as I._ A layer of disgust rippled through his words, _We dragons are noble and free creatures, and should not be set in chains._

Eragon, for a brief moment, felt very sympathetic toward the red dragon. That was until he felt anger at Murtagh's implied threats to Saphira. Threats to himself he could accept and ignore; threats to those he loved he could not.

_Well, I knew_that_,_ Murtagh said, alerting Eragon to the fact that he had broadcasted that last thought. _Which brings up something else you should know…_ He trailed off tantalizingly.

Eragon gritted his teeth, still desperately attempting to free himself as Thorn flapped closer. He could see Murtagh on his back now, his face grim and Zar'roc loose in his hands. The crimson sword and dragon glittered with a red fire in the sunlight.

_I warn you, Murtagh, if you're playing with-_

You're _warning_ me? Murtagh mocked, amusement filling his consciousness. _What will you do if I_am_playing with you? What_could_you do?_

Eragon growled low in his throat, but could martial no retort. Murtagh was right. Instead, he said, _What? What should I know, then?_ Eragon's muscles began to tremble in exhaustion from fighting the spell, so he ceased the flow of magic, surrendering himself to it. He would die if he continued fighting Murtagh.

Murtagh laughed, and Eragon could see his physical face twist with his mirth. _I'm proud of you, little brother._Eragon flinched at the reminder of their shared father, but said nothing. His discomfort, however, was nothing compared to what he felt when Murtagh finished the thought. _You've managed to fall in love. With the elf, no less._

Eragon froze, staring up at the dragon that was now within two hundred yards. _What are you talking about? You have spent too much time in Galbatorix's company. You've gone mad, mad just like your master._

Thorn snarled. _It would be best to guard your tongue, small one,_ the dragon said. _The dark king is not one to take insults well, and you will be spending much time in his company._

_Thorn's right,_ Murtagh said stonily. _If you defy him, you won't be the one to suffer. Well, you will, but your loved ones will suffer more. Like Saphira… Or Arya._

Eragon snarled. _If you touch her, I'll kill you._

Thorn and Murtagh were now within a hundred yards. _I just thought you should know,_ Murtagh said in a sad voice._Galbatorix knows now how you feel about her. It will only be a matter of time before she is captured, and he will not hesitate to use her against you._

Eragon ground his teeth together in fury, his anger only all the greater because of his helplessness. There was nothing he could do. Even after his miraculous escape from Helgrind, he was still to be taken before the dark king. Fortune and fate seemed quite ill disposed toward him these past several days.

Another mind touched his, this one familiar, its touch soothing, and its being filled with clear chords of music. Still it was a distant touch, light as a feather, as impersonal as a meeting of minds could be.

_Shurtugal, what are you doing?_ Arya asked, sounding furious. _Why do you not run?_

_Go, Arya,_ Eragon said, responding with an anger of his own. _Don't worry about me. Just get to safety._

_Arya!_ Murtagh greeted. _Fancy meeting you here. Eragon's mind is quite the popular place right now, isn't it?_

_Speak not to me, betrayer,_ Arya retorted.

_You make it sound as if I did it by choice._

_Be it choice or not, you accept it with far too much relish,_ Arya said with venom.

Before Murtagh could respond-and Eragon knew he was going to-he shielded his mind from his brother, sending one last though to Arya before closing off his thoughts.

_Run._

Arya's own thought came back in the same instance; _Hold on, Eragon. I am coming._

Eragon wanted to tell her not to, but it was already far too late. Arya had withdrawn behind her own barriers. Feeling as if the very fabric of the universe was determined to make him a ruined man, Eragon turned his head back to Murtagh and Thorn, noting with rising panic that they were now within a hundred feet of him. Inside, he actually found himself urging them to hurry, so they could take him before Arya did whatever it was she planning to do.

Suddenly, Thorn's wings seemed to fail him, and with a monstrous roar, the dragon and rider plummeted the twenty feet to the ground, landing with a rumble that shook the earth. Eragon, uncomprehending, blinked in surprise and fell forward onto his face. The collision with the sun baked grass alerted him to the fact that he was no longer imprisoned by Murtagh's spell.

_"Eragon!"_ Murtagh shouted, his voice trembling with rage. "What have you done to Thorn?"

Eragon didn't bother to respond, but leapt to his feet and ran for the trees, yelping when he felt another constrictive force hold him in place halfway down the hill.

"I cannot allow you to escape!" Murtagh cried.

Before Eragon's frustration could mount, a consciousness touched him, sweeping aside his defenses as easily as if they hadn't been there and bringing him in contact with a mind incredibly vast and intelligent, its thoughts so fleeting and wily that Eragon couldn't even begin to catch a single word. It echoed within, but not with multitudes as Murtagh's had, but with only a few voices, and it was filled with a strange, powerful music, some of the notes deafeningly loud, like the thrum of a tremendous drum, and others soft and barely decipherable, like the peal of the smallest, purest bells. It was harsh and beautiful at the same time, and so archaic in fashion that Eragon was immediately reminded of a dragon. The mind was so deep, so ancient and complex that Eragon couldn't even begin to grasp the limits of its psyche.

This in mind, Eragon was quite taken aback by the brusqueness and directness with which it spoke. _Would you hurry up?_ it said rudely, its male voice utterly unremarkable compared to its mind. _I can't keep this up all day. Well, I probably could, but can you imagine a better waste of my time? I know I can. Get a move on._

Eragon blinked, startled, stumbling forward as a burst of magic surged through the vast intelligence of the man. He stumbled forward as his magical bonds once again fell away. Wasting no time, he ran forward.

"Garjzla letta!" he cried, using the first spell that came to mind.

Both Murtagh and Thorn roared, their joined voices containing an underlying accent of fear under their fury. Eragon hoped their new blindness would distract them long enough for him to get away before Murtagh could use magic again.

The alien mind laughed uproariously. _Oh, you're learning, I'll give you that._

_Who are you?_

_Me? Do you really want to know?_

_I do._

_Hmm... It has been so long since my name has been used that I've near forgotten it myself. So I suppose you can call me Curse-Breaker or Spellbane. Everyone else does._

_Who is "everyone else?"_ Eragon asked suspiciously.

_That's neither here nor there. Ask me again if you ever meet me._

Eragon consigned himself to ignorance; there was no possible way he could force answers out of this man, and, after all, the man had saved his life, so why should he?

_I thank you,_ Eragon said in the ancient language. _I owe you more than you know._

_No you don't,_ Spellbane said, sounding amused. Eragon couldn't tell; he was simply too alien. _I know a lot more than you would think. Now, would you get going? I was eating breakfast before you caused this whole little uproar. My eggs are getting cold._

With that, Spellbane withdrew, leaving Eragon alone with only his thoughts while he entered the thin shadows of the trees. Behind him, Thorn continued to roar, scattering the birds from the closest branches. Eragon sighed with relief as he entered the leafy domain.

Thankfully, he wasn't alone for long. Arya emerged from the underbrush a moment later, her face irritated and harassed as she stalked forward. It was one of the strangest walks he had even seen an elf do, more like a march than the thoughtless grace he was used to.

"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice anxious. Eragon noticed that leaves were once again stuck in her hair and had to physically restrain himself from reaching out and combing them free.

"I'm fine," he answered nonchalantly. He stared intently into her face. To his surprise, she stared back. In an intense voice, he asked, "Are you?"

Green eyes stared into his for a single moment. Then, to Eragon's growing frustration, Arya turned away, resuming her cold countenance. "I am well, Shurtugal."

"What exactly where you planning to do a moment ago?" Eragon asked, masking his anger. "What could you hope to do? You would only have been captured."

"It is of no consequence now," Arya snapped. "And do not underestimate me, _human_."

"I never did," Eragon said quietly. "But you shouldn't have thought of coming after me."

She rounded on him angrily. "What-"

Arya fell silent as a chorus of panicked screams, emitting from the throats of a thousand birds and animals, echoed through the trees. Branches and bushes alike began to shake as the creatures of the forest rushed away in a frenzy.

Arya stared upward for a moment, her black tresses rippling about her shoulders. "We cannot linger," she said after a moment, turning away and running into the woods. Without a word, Eragon followed, knowing only too well exactly what they were running from. Together, Rider and elf ducked under a bush, crouching low as they ran.

Thorn soared overhead, scouring the landscape with the blood red spots of light reflecting off his crimson hide. On his back, Murtagh shouted a single word, a name with which he betrayed his fury.

_"Eragon!"_


	11. An Ironic Twist

Branches and leaves whipped against Eragon's face, in some cases drawing blood, as he sprinted through the trees, trying to stay as close to Arya as possible. The elf-woman was running at a reckless-yet remarkably silent-pace that made him fear for her life. If she tripped-unlikely as that possibility may have been-at that speed, she would be fortunate if she didn't break her neck. She would, at the very least, break something, be it bone or branch, and most likely both.

Thus Eragon's fear.

She was also dangerously far ahead of him. So far ahead, actually, that he could only catch glimpses of her as she cut around trees and bushes. Growing increasingly worried, Eragon continued to follow her, relying mostly on Arya's crushed pine-needle scent to keep him on the correct path.

Thankfully, as he was crashing rather loudly through the underbrush, the forest was filled to a deafening level with the chaotic noise of the forest animals madly fleeing the scene, screaming and growling all the while. Thorn continually flew overhead, passing over the forest and sending the beasts of that place into a crazed, terrified frenzy. Twice Eragon nearly collided with rampaging stags.

_Why are we running so quickly?_ Eragon wondered. It wasn't as if they were standing in open space. They were under the protective cover of the trees, guarded from the eyes of the birds and dragons above by the leaves and branches overhead. What was gained by this mad race? Despite his misgivings, Eragon was not about to stop, not if Arya wasn't. He didn't understand why she was running so recklessly. Was she running away from him again, or afraid of something else?

_Of course she's afraid of something else,_ Eragon thought, sure Saphira would have provided the realization much more quickly had she been there. _She was captured once by the Empire, and was tortured for months on end as a result. She must be terrified by the possibility of being captured again._ These thoughts helped Eragon to understand Arya's fear, but didn't make him wish any less that she would slow down. She was going to break her neck… Or attract the attention of a certain ruby dragon and its Rider.

A sudden pressure spiked into Eragon's ears, causing him to wince painfully and nearly trip over his own feet. He staggered, but did not fall, while his mind processed the pain he had just felt. Thorn was close by. Tensing, he darted his gaze every which way, searching for a hiding place. Before he could scan so much as a single leaf, a slender hand painfully grasped his arm and pulled him to the ground.

Eragon's breath left him in a sudden whoosh as he collided in none to gentle a fashion with the ground, the soft bed of leaves offering little comfort as the rocky earth broke his fall. Sharp ridges of stones dug into his back as the hand moved to his chest, pressing him down against the earth. Stiffening, Eragon immediately began to resist, these events taking place too quickly for him to understand what was happening.

Another hand clamped down over his mouth as he growled in exertion, and the one on his chest pressed down harder, threatening to stave in his ribcage. Still, Eragon struggled.

"Be still," Arya hissed in his ear. Eragon immediately calmed at the sound of her voice, allowing himself to be pressed harder into the ground. As he settled, he was able to perceive his immediate surroundings, and found that Arya had pulled him under a thick bush, the leaves of which kept tickling his face. Thin beams of sunlight shone through the small branches, and the painful concussions grew louder and louder. Eragon, feeling the creeping fingers of panic and fear steal through his heart, attempted to be silent as the grave, barely daring to breathe.

It wasn't difficult.

Eragon was suddenly extremely surprised to find that Arya was quite literally on top of him, her abdomen resting across his torso, causing her soft form to conform to the hard muscles of his chest. One of her hands was still fastened over his mouth, filling his nostrils with the sharp crushed pine-needle scent that wafted from her skin. Her other hand was held tightly on his arm, fingers digging painfully into his bicep.

Eragon was even more surprised to find that Arya's face was scarcely more than two inches from his own, her mouth hovering above his ear as she stared upward with panicked green eyes. He black hair tumbled about her pointed ears, pooling about Eragon's face and tickling his cheeks. Her mouth opened slightly as she gazed up at the sky, her eyes darting frantically about.

"Can't we use magic to hide ourselves?" Eragon whispered around Arya's hands, already knowing the answer but attempting to calm Arya by distracting her. She quickly withdrew her hand, pressing it almost distractedly against Eragon's forehead.

"No," she whispered, barely moving her lips and keeping her eyes trained skyward. "Murtagh would detect our use of it… We cannot risk using gramarye until we are a safe distance away." Before he could say anything else, she leaned down and whispered in his ear, so softly that he could barely hear it, "Now be still and silent, Shurtugal, for the danger has not passed." She raised her head again, staring at the sky once more.

Eragon complied, watching Arya carefully. She looked to be on the edge of a knife, no more than a whisper of a breath from losing control. Her eyes were panicked, and she was almost hyperventilating, bathing Eragon's face in her warm breath.

"Arya," he whispered. She glanced down at him, then back to the sky, her eyes flitting wildly. "Arya," he repeated. She didn't respond, her breath quickening if anything.

Quickly, before all was lost, Eragon raised his hands and placed them on either side of Arya's head, forcing her to look downward. She tried to look away, but he captured her eyes with his own. The emerald orbs were panicked and filled with fear, a dark undertone of madness swimming at the edges.

"Arya," he said, quietly as he could. "There's no need to be afraid." He was lying, of course, but the truth was not conducive to keeping Arya under control.

"Of course there is," she said, her lilting voice cracking. "We will be captured once more. They will torture me for information, like they did before." Her voice quavered, and she looked terribly close to tears, something Eragon had never before seen. It unnerved him, but didn't repel.

"Arya," he said, trying to make his whispering voice sound comforting. "I'm right here. I won't let them take you."

"But you cannot stop them," Arya said dropping her gaze. "He drove me to madness once, Durza… I cannot do that again." She slowly shook her head. "Not again."

"Durza is dead," Eragon said consolingly.

"Yes, and can you not imagine how much worse Galbatorix will be?" Arya snapped. "He will be break me, and take everything I know, violate me in the worst fashion… And that will not even be as terrible as what they will do to you!" Her lips quivered, and Eragon recognized then how truly close to insanity Durza had driven her. He cursed the Shade to the deepest pit of hell, almost wishing he was still alive so he might exact justice from the creature first.

His rage melted away as Arya spoke again, "They will torture me, and do worse to you. Eragon, I cannot bear it if they…" She trailed off, raising her tortured eyes to his, looking as if she wanted to say more, but refraining from doing so.

"Arya, I won't let them do that." Eragon vowed softly, slowly stroking her cheekbones with the tips of his thumbs, her hair twining about his fingers. "I won't let them hurt you again. Not again."

The concussions continued to grow steadily louder as Arya's green eyes flicked from his left eye to his right, then back again, terribly confused and more than a little afraid. Eragon was unsure if it was just capture Arya was afraid of now, but he _was_ sure that his comfort hadn't worked, at least not as well as he would have liked.

Throwing caution and reason to the winds, he drew her to his chest, drawing her tight against him as he took his turn at staring up into the sky. She hid her face in his shirt, her fingers tightly gripping his arms with bruising force. Eragon easily ignored the pain, wrapping his arms around her slim shoulders as he stared up at the sky.

Even though the continual pain in his ears indicated the close presence of one of his mortal enemies, Eragon was not unaware that he was holding Arya in his arms for the first time. Still, it was not a moment of lust or passion for Eragon, but one of fear, one of worry. It was not love or desire that drove him to hug the elf-woman to his chest, but camaraderie, a moment of friendship. He knew that Arya was panicked and terrified, which in itself scared Eragon. He'd never seen Arya so afraid. Though he wished it was more, he was doing nothing more than offering Arya a shoulder to cry on, a solace in which she could hide her face from the world and all that she feared in it.

_She has had precious little of that,_ Eragon thought, carefully monitoring Thorn's overhead passage. _She walks alone… Others have offered her little comfort before._

The noise of the panicking animals increased ten fold as Thorn flapped directly over them, nearly blinding Eragon with the red light reflected from his scales. The dragon neither stopped nor slowed, but continued on, apparently oblivious to their presence. As the shadow of the beast passed, Eragon released a pent up breath, loosening his hold around Arya's shoulders. She tightened her grip on his arms in response, causing Eragon to wince.

"He's gone, Arya," he whispered. She raised her head slightly, meeting his eyes. "We're safe now…" He cocked his head. "Sort of," he amended.

Slowly releasing her grip on him, she stood and stepped back, allowing her hair to fall as a veil before her face. As Eragon got to his feet, she rolled her shoulders and straightened, seeming to bring herself back under control.

"Are you ready, Shurtugal?" she asked, causing Eragon to wince once more. He had forgotten that she was angry with him. Or rather, herself, and taking it out on him. He desperately wished she would just tell him whatever the matter was.

Feeling suddenly slightly grumpy, he didn't answer but started forward again, moving progressively east to circumvent the hills. Arya followed silently.

Both had taken perhaps five steps when the forest abruptly erupted into a deafening chorus of shrieks and growls, adorned with the rustling of leaves, as if many beasts were suddenly raging through the underbrush.

"Is Thorn coming back?" Eragon asked as he stopped short, confused.

Arya's slanted eyebrows met. "I do not think so, but this is peculiar… We shall be cautious."

Eragon, his brow furrowed, nodded as he slowly looked around. The noise increased, and the sound of a large animal rushing toward them met Eragon's ears. Several birds suddenly collected overhead, circling under the trees like vultures, chirping harshly. A number of squirrels gathered on the branches squeaking as if jeering. Two rabbits leapt out from under a bush, slinking low to the ground as if wolves while they bared their prominent front teeth, ears pressed back against their skulls. Eragon would have laughed at the ridiculous sight if the ominous feeling had not begun to settle over him.

"What is happening?" Arya asked calmly, though Eragon could tell by the look in her eyes that she was unnerved.

"I think," Eragon said slowly, trying to be aware of all the animals gathering around them. "That the whole world has suddenly turned against us." Remembering his lessons under Oromis, he expanded his mind so that he was aware of all the creatures around him, but not so far as to accidentally brush against Thorn or Murtagh's minds.

What he found was horrifying.

With an angry snort, a large stag suddenly appeared from around a tree, rushing toward Eragon with its antlers lowered, froth collecting on its mouth as it sprinted furiously. With a surprised exclamation, Eragon pushed Arya to the side and jumped from the stag's path, narrowly avoiding a blow to the ribs from its antlers.

Snorting and huffing as if deranged-which it was-the stag whipped around, kicking up leaves and plants, and rushed toward Eragon again, antlers once again lowered. Reacting quickly, Eragon seized its antlers and held his arms stiff, immediately halting the stag's mad rush. He groaned with the exertion of holding the beast back. The stag huffed and snapped its straight teeth at him, attempting to whip its head back forth as Eragon maintained his grip on its antlers. Grunting with the effort, Eragon held it in place, digging his heels into the soft soil as the beast pushed him along the ground. Inhaling sharply, Eragon tossed the beast back a few stops, and then, before it could recover, lunged forward and jabbed its forehead with the heel of his hand, shattering its skull. The beast dropped to the leaves and was still.

Glancing only briefly at his kill, Eragon looked around to find that Arya was kicking at the rabbits and slapping away the squirrels and birds that were attacking her. He saw her open her mouth, saw the look on her face, and knew what she was about to do.

"Don't use magic!" he warned, jumping forward to help her. She glared at him, but closed her mouth and worked in silence as the two-slightly disgusted with themselves-disposed of the small creatures.

When the last mad bird fell to the ground, Arya said, "Murtagh has turned the animals of the forest against us."

"I figured that out for myself, thanks," Eragon snapped, clenching his fists as he glared around, looking for any more threats. What Murtagh had done would require no more than a nudge of the mind to an animal… It would not have been difficult.

Arya stared at him for a moment, but disregarded his remark. "Why did you stop me from performing magic? We would have been done with this far sooner."

More of the small creatures were collecting around them, chattering and chirping madly as they prepared to attack. Entertaining no desire to slay the entire forest, Eragon seized Arya's arm and started running east once more. She slapped his hand away, but followed anyway.

"We would have played right into Murtagh's hands," Eragon explained as the went, answering Arya's question. "He can't _really_ think these animals would kill us. Besides, that's not his goal. He wants to capture us, remember?" He shook his head, disgusted-yet, at the same time, grudgingly admiring-of his brother for the strategy. "He just wants to force us to use magic and reveal our location." _He might overlook the manipulation of energy,_ Eragon reasoned. _But we shouldn't take that risk._

He could feel Arya's eyes on the side of his head. "You sound as if you respect his tactic," she remarked.

"Maybe I do," he growled, low in his throat. "It almost worked, didn't it? It was logical. Wrong and immoral, but logical."

"The ends do not justify the means."

"No they don't," Eragon agreed, still angry. "But the means never seem to matter to those who care enough about the end."

Arya was silent for a long moment, a moment filled only with the sounds of their feet striking the earth, the sound of their breathing, and the shrieks of the animals searching and in pursuit. "You have changed," she said quietly.

Eragon pretended not to hear; he knew she was right.

More loud rustling sounded close by, alerting Eragon to the presence of several large beasts moving to pursue them. Putting his hand on the small of her back, Eragon directed Arya away from the animals. To his relief, she didn't push him away.

A heavy weight stuck Eragon in the back, clinging to him and digging into this skin with sharp claws. Unprepared for the sudden burden, Eragon tumbled forward, rolling across the ground and flinging whatever it was that had jumped on his back ahead of him. The claws ripped through his skin as the creature was tugged free.

Rolling into a crouch, Eragon came face to face with a huge, bizarre cat. Its eyes were red and glaring, and its body was lean as it crouched low to the ground, the muscles of its powerful shoulders standing out against its fur covered skin. Its long face was bordered with a thick, black mane. Yellowish fangs curved down along its jaw, and a long, gray scar arched across its snout like a crescent moon.

_Werecat,_ Eragon quickly identified, barely able to process the thought before it leapt at him. Employing the limited flexibility he had gained from his experience with the Dance of the Snake and Crane, Eragon leaned back, sending the werecat sailing over his head. It's razor sharp claws whistled through the air an inch from Eragon's face.

Eragon twisted about as it landed behind him, twirling to the side as it leapt once more. However, he was not entirely quick enough to avoid the blow, and the tips of its claws caught him across the shoulder, raking lines of fire across his skin.

Arya attacked the creature, her hand extended like a knife toward the werecat's neck as it landed. The werecat hissed ferociously and slashed at her hand. Eragon's heart stopped, but thankfully, Arya pulled her hand away before the blow connected. Her boot encased foot snapped out at the feline, but missed as the werecat jumped out of the way. It leapt toward Eragon once more, fangs bared and claws fully extended.

Prepared for this, Eragon swept his hand back and lashed out, catching the beast on the flank with the back of his hand and sending it flying through the air past him. It collided in a painful looking way with the ground, rolled, and leapt back onto its feet, hackles raised. It initiated a new tactic, bounding with lighting speed toward Eragon's legs. Eragon kicked out at it, but it dodged the blow and slashed at both of his legs. Blood beaded along the cuts. Growling in pain, Eragon tripped over the werecat as it dodged around his legs. He went to his knees, and from there to his back as the werecat lunged into his stomach, knocking him backward and digging viciously into his skin. Eragon groaning in pain, tried to shove the creature off his stomach, but it hooked its claws underneath his skin, rooting it firmly in place and bringing the pain to new heights.

Then Arya was at his side, her leg speeding forward into a full kick. There was a sickening crunch as her boot struck the werecat in the flank, and it howled in agony as it was flung from Eragon's stomach. It rolled on its side across the leafy ground, landing on its feet and holding its left foreleg off the ground. Hissing and spitting, it turned and limped into the bushes, fleeing the scene.

Arya stood over Eragon, glaring at the werecat as it fled. When it was gone, she went to her knees at his side, hair cascading around her face. "Eragon, are you alright?" she asked anxiously, brushing his bangs from his face. Eragon felt his face heating at the touch, and more so from the concern she was showing for him. His pain seemed to fade away as he looked up at her. Without his bidding, his hand reached up toward her face. Arya's green eyes followed its slow approach, her face tortured and indecisive.

Without warning, a snarling blur of gray fur knocked Arya aside, taking her from Eragon's view.

"Arya!" he cried, moving to stand. A second blur suddenly landed on Eragon's chest, knocking the breath violently from his lungs with the force of its flight. Instinct saved Eragon then; he threw his hand up to grip his attacker's throat, and found himself holding back the snapping, slobbering maw of a gray wolf as it tried desperately to tear out his throat. Its cold yellow eyes glared at Eragon with madness, spittle splattering across Eragon's face as he held its yellow fangs from his throat.

With his elfin strength, this was barely a challenge. He closed his hands around the beasts shaggy neck and squeezed once, effectively snapping its neck. Hastily tossing the carcass aside, Eragon began to get to his feet, searching frantically for Arya. Something closed around his right wrist, holding him to the ground as a searing agony scorched up his arm. Crying out in surprise and pain, Eragon looked down to see a third wolf with its jaws wrapped around his arm. Retaliating in fury and pain, Eragon struck downward with his uninjured hand. There was a chorus of wet crunches, and the wolf yelped once, flopped over on its side, and was still, the splintered remains of four ribs protruding from the midst of the blood-soaked gray fur.

Holding his injured arm to his chest, Eragon sat up and looked around, energy and bloodlust coursing through his veins. He saw Arya climbing to her feet, tossing the corpse of a third wolf into the bushes. When he realized that she was uninjured, he slowly got to his feet, wincing from the pain of his new injuries.

"Are you injured?" Arya asked, brushing the dirt and leaves from her hair as she approached him.

"I'm… Fine," Eragon answered looking down and examining the lacerations in his flesh. Many of the slashes were deep and bleeding, but none appeared to be life threatening.

Arya gasped. "Eragon!" she exclaimed, closing the remainder of the distance between them. She pushed him down to the ground and knelt beside him. With something close to horror, she began moving her hands across his wounds. "Let me heal you," she said.

Eragon shook his head. "No. Murtagh will find us."

"But you could bleed to death," Arya warned, narrowing her eyes at him.

"We'll make some bandages," Eragon said. When Arya pursed her lips in disapproval, he said, "I'll be fine, but not if we start using magic. Murtagh will find us that way."

Before Eragon finished speaking, Arya was already moving to tear strips for bandages from her shirt. Eragon reached forward and caught her hands, stopping her.

"Use mine," he said, holding out the hem of his shirt and tearing a long strip from it to bind the bloody wound of his wrist. Arya complied, combing her black hair back behind her pointed ears as she bound his injuries, pushing his hands away when he tried to help her.

Arya left little for Eragon to do, so he sat back and allowed Arya to tend to him, impatiently looking around for more attackers. Fearful, he continually glanced at the sky, half expecting Thorn to be hovering there, attracted by the commotion they had created. It struck Eragon again then, the cleverness of the tactic Murtagh had employed. Considering it from all angles-as Oromis would expect-it struck Eragon then how similar it was to how Galbatorix did things.

He chuckled to himself. Arya glanced up at him, and then back down to his wounds. "I do not see what is so amusing."

Eragon chuckled again. "It's a terrible twist of irony, isn't it?"

Arya briefly glanced up at him again. "I do not understand."

Eragon gestured to the air around him, wincing when he used his left hand. "All this. We're on a mission to protect life, and Galbatorix enslaves all life to stop us. Murtagh, soldiers, now animals… It's as if he turned all that we try to protect against us. To stop us." He laughed again. "It's amusing. Backwards."

"Ironic," Arya summarized, not sounding amused in the least.

Eragon nodded with another chuckle, looking down to see what Arya was doing. She had bound the more serious wounds, and was moving on to the shallower cuts. He pushed her hands away, getting quickly to his feet.

"Leave it," he said.

"You will bleed."

"Yes. But I won't die." Eragon reached down with his good arm, seized Arya around the waist, and hauled her to her feet. She gasped in surprise, but made no move to stop him. "But worse will happen to us if we remain here," he said quietly, staring intensely into Arya's green eyes, less than a foot away. The elf's gaze flicked between his right eye and his left, and still she made no move to step away.

"We should go," Eragon said after a moment. "We can't linger here."

Arya looked down and stepped back, turning once more to the east. "We have been here too long, Shurtugal. Too many search for us."

As if it had been waiting for those words, a fourth wolf howled and lunged from around a tree, streaking through the air toward Arya's throat. Eragon, snarling in a way that was nearly indistinguishable from the wolf, struck out at the beast with his foot. The creature's jaw splintered as his toe smashed into its chin, snapping it head back and breaking its neck. Eragon stared down at the corpse, panting.

Arya put a hand on his arm. "We should go."

Eragon nodded. "Before anything else finds us." 


	12. From the Back of Ruby Dragon

The wind howled around Murtagh, tugging at his hair with raking fingers as he flow over the land astride Thorn's back. All the world extended in every direction below them, the beasts fled from the them and did their bidding, and the sky was empty and clear, offering endless opportunities, opportunities that offered adventure, exhilaration, excitement, and-just maybe-peace. It was a brilliant freedom, to view the world from the back of a dragon on the wing. A freedom to do what one wanted-because he had the power-and go where one wished-because he had the means to do so. Yet, despite all this freedom, anger and frustration constantly simmered within Murtagh, for the freedom that his post offered had been torn away the moment it had been thrust upon him in the form of a small, hatchling dragon. It was even worse for Thorn, whom had never known freedom at all.

So there he sat, on the back of his closest friend, high above the trees and hills below, searching constantly for his brother, to enslave him as he had been enslaved, to torture him as he had been tortured. Even through all of his pain, his sympathy, Murtagh could not deny that he felt a certain thrill, an excitement, in his duty. He could pass his burden, his pain, on to his younger brother, even out the scales of fate. It wasn't fair that Eragon had the freedom he did, wasn't fair that ihe/i had it and Murtagh didn't. iShouldn't /iIi, after suffering my entire life, have been given that freedom instead of him?/i Murtagh thought bitterly, grinding his teeth. Eragon had been raised easily, untroubled and unburdened, and still ihe/i was the one who was free. Murtagh had been persecuted and tortured his entire life, defied the Empire even though he had spent nearly every waking moment being trained to obey it, and still ihe/i was the slave!

iOh, the injustice!/i Thorn said in an exasperated voice, jolting Murtagh from his depressed musing.

iLike you don't think about it all the time,/i Murtagh retorted. iWouldn't you like to be free? Don't you find serving Galbatorix re-i He stopped and gagged, his next words cut off by his mystical bindings, despite the fact that he had not spoken his "treasonous" thoughts aloud. iParanoid old man,/i he complained quickly, gladly paying the price for his insults. He winced when the pain came.

Thorn twitched beneath him. iIs it in /ianyi way possible for you to hold your tongue? You are not the only one to feel the magic-burn-pain when you insult him./i

iSorry,/i Murtagh said, genuinely regretful that he'd caused Thorn pain. As way of apology, he rubbed the red scales of Thorn's neck, just above one of his spiny spikes.

iAnd, to speak truth,/i Thorn continued, disregarding Murtagh's apology but inwardly humming with pleasure. iYes, I regularly think of freedom, as you well know./i A solemn note crept into his voice. iIt is difficult not to when one has wings and is bound too tightly to use them as he would./i

At these words Murtagh felt once again the fury that Thorn had been enslaved at birth. He continued to rub Thorn's neck comfortingly, though inside he longed to tear Galbatorix apart.

Thorn shook his head and growled. iAt any rate,/i he said. iIs it too terribly constricting to keep the profanity and insults to a minimum? It would be unfortunate for the magic-burn-pain to catch me by surprise. I hear the bone-crush-ground is unforgiving as of late. There's no need for quick introductions to it. Drawn out introductions are so much more heartfelt. Less painful too, if memory serves as any indication./i

iI get it,/i Murtagh growled. iThere's no need for a soliloquy./i

Thorn's ribcage rumbled between Murtagh's legs as the red dragon chuckled. iAnd stop the self-pitying and do something useful… If you must think of it, think of a way to free us, don't wallow./i

iThat /iwouldi be more productive, /iMurtagh admitted.

iI should think so. It might make you feel a little better about yourself too./i

iWhatever you say,/i Murtagh replied, his voice tainted with a hint of sarcasm.

iFine. Be a little boy. Wallow. Show everyone how much those years of torture have hardened you./i

iShut up,/i Murtagh snapped.

iAh, a nerve… I think I might play with it./i

i"Irritating" is one of your better qualities./i

iAnger is more useful than despair./i

Murtagh sighed, silently conceding the point. iYou just enjoy manipulating me, don't you?/i

Thorn chuckled again. iIt /iisi amusing./i

"Mad lizard," Murtagh muttered, rubbing his eyes and squinting down at the trees.

iYou are aware that I'm not deaf, are you not?i Thorn said, moving his head to glare at him with one red eye. iThere's no need to insult me./i

iIt /iamusesi me.i Murtagh said dryly.

Thorn chuckled, but said nothing. Together, Rider and dragon resumed their steady scanning of the trees below them, yawning occasionally as time went by. Leaves and branches rushed by beneath them, but no evidence of their quarry presented itself.

"This is pointless," Murtagh said, frustrated. "We'll never find them from up here. We've probably passed directly over them several times already!"

iYou are truly determined to sulk today,/i Thorn noted.

iMaybe I am,/i Murtagh agreed grudgingly. "But how are we supposed to find them from up here?"

Thorn snorted, a small stream of fire flaring from his nostrils. iWould you like to walk?/i he hinted, sounding irritated. iYour search would be /isoi much more fruitful on foot./i

"Be quiet," Murtagh muttered, rubbing his eyes again. Just then, the angle of the sun shifted. It was an infinitesimal change, but it was enough that the sun now shone directly in Murtagh's eyes, blinding him with its brilliance.

Reacting almost subconsciously, Murtagh reached for the magic and opened his mouth to cast a spell.

Thorn roared, scattering birds for a miles around. iMurtagh!/i he roared mentally in the same instant.

Murtagh blinked, and then realized that he had almost cast a spell to move the sun. Swearing, he withdrew from the magic, allowing it to fade from his body.

iYou need rest, mind-brother,/i Thorn said. iYou're not thinking clearly./i

"Do you really think so?" Murtagh snapped, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I almost tried to move the isun!"/i

iHence my concern,/i Thorn replied calmly. iYou haven't slept in over a day./i

iI'll be fine./i

Thorn rolled his eyes. iNo, you won't. Get some sleep, mind-brother. I shall continue searching./i

iI can't sleep,/i Murtagh said. iWe have to meet ugly and uglier soon./i

iThey have names./i

iWhat's your point?/i

iFine,/i Thorn sighed. iBut ff you insist on being dense, at least take some energy from the Eldunari./i

Murtagh shuddered. iNo thanks… I hate interacting with those things./i

Thorn growled. iThen take some of mine./i

Murtagh shook his head. iYou're tired too. You've been awake and flying just as long as I have, remember? I know you're tough, but you need all the strength you can get./i

Thorn sighed again. iMust you be so stubborn, mind-brother?/i

iI'm fairly sure it runs in the family./i

Thorn made no reply, but resumed his search of the forest below. Murtagh joined him after a short moment, indulging in a few pungent oaths through his yawns while he blearily peered down through the branches. The sun continued its downward descent as the minutes slowly crawled by.

After an hour, Thorn said, iHave you spotted anything?/i

Murtagh snorted. iAnd you call /imei dense. Don't you think I would have told you if I had seen anything?/i

iForgive me for making sure you were awake./i

"We're joined at the mind, Thorn," Murtagh said. iYou would know if I was sleeping. /i

iWhen your mind wanders, it is difficult to tell,/i Thorn explained.

Murtagh cocked his head to one side. "Was my mind wandering? I thought I was focused on the task at hand."

iHave you sensed any magical activity recently?/i Thorn asked, changing the topic.

iAgain, I would have let you know./i

iIt would seem that forcing the animals to attack Eragon and Arya did not have the effect you intended./i

Murtagh growled low in his throat. iIt wouldn't seem so./i

iThink you, mind-brother, that they were taken by surprise and killed?/i

Murtagh considered the question for only a moment. iIt's unlikely, but not impossible./i

iThose were my conclusions, but how will we know?/i

Murtagh shrugged.

Thorn sighed. iMurtagh, when will you learn that I can't see you making gestures when you're on my back? You have to say something./i

iYou knew I shrugged, didn't you?/i

iThat's beside the point./i

iFine… I don't suppose we'll ever find out, unless we stumble on their corpses, which is unlikely, considering we're flying./i He frowned. iBut I am going to be very angry if Eragon allowed himself to be killed. Especially since I've been looking for him all this time./i

Thorn deigned to remain silent, probing the landscape with his scarlet eyes. Murtagh mimicked him, but then saw a rise in the forest, a bare patch of land on which no trees grew. The bones of the earth broke through the forest loam in that spot, creating a hill with a large chunk of rock that rose to the level of the trees surrounding it. Grass covered its surface, hiding all but one side of the rock, which was nothing more than a miniature cliff.

He pointed to the rise. "Thorn, that's where we're supposed to meet them."

iYou realize that I can't actually see your hand,/i Thorn complained.

iThen it's a good thing you can see my mind,/i Murtagh replied. iLand on the hill, would you?/i

iAs you wish./i

Thorn banked and began to drift slowly downward toward the hill, his glossy scales casting red pinpricks of light across the trees and their leaves. As they came closer to the ground, Murtagh spotted a lone figure standing on the rise, a figure swathed in thick black robes that billowed out in the wind. Murtagh swore when he saw it, thinking, iNow I'm going to have to listen to him harp on about how he "finds my insolence displeasing," or how he's going to torture me to death when he gets free, all because he was here before me. Because I'm late./i

Thorn snarled at the sight of the man. iShall I roast him? His visage offends me./i

Murtagh smiled. iI would love to give you permission, but Galbatorix might be a little put out if you kill another one of his servants./i

Thorn growled again. iI only did that once. He baited me as a beast./i

iAnd you reacted like a beast. Charming./i

iWould you like me to repeat the feat?/i Thorn inquired with a growl.

iI am content./i

iGood./i

As they drew closer to the hill, further details of the man come into light. The first impression was height; the man rose to a towering seven feet, all entirely encased in loose black clothing and formfitting black-leather armor in places like forearms, shins, shoulders, and-of course-the groin. Most of his body was obscured with a thick, torn and shredded black cloak, but Murtagh was fully aware of the large arsenal of weapons strapped to the man's body, and that was excluding the slender hilt protruding from over his shoulder. Like the rest of his body, the man's face was hidden in the shadows of the cloak.

The man's shredded cloak whipped about chaotically as Thorn landed before him, cracking several stones beneath his feet as he settled to the ground, spitting a tendril of flame as if a warning. He stepped forward ominously as he folded his crimson wings into his side, exhaling smoke. The man didn't move, but remained frozen in place, seemingly unfazed by Thorn's theatrical entrance.

iCan I please roast him now?/i Thorn pleaded, annoyed that the man hadn't flinched.

iOnly if he irritates me./i

"You're late," said the Shade in a deep, echoing tone that seemed to contain the voices of multiple people.

"Alright, Thorn," Murtagh announced. "You can roast him now."

Chuckling, Thorn started forward, his neck already craning back, smoke spewing copiously from his nostrils. Murtagh felt the rumble in Thorn's chest that always preceded the blaze.

"No!" the Shade said, taking a step back. "That… That won't be necessary."

Murtagh smiled. iThat seems to have done the trick, Thorn. You can stop now.i

The rumbling continued. After a moment, Thorn said, iWhat if I don't want to?/i

iLet's think for a moment here,/i Murtagh said sarcastically. iYou stop anyway?/i

The rumbling died away, and Thorn settled back down to the ground, growling. iYou are fortunate that you are so precious to me, else I would have eaten you long ago for your snide remarks./i

iYou know you love me,/i Murtagh teased.

Thorn's lip curled up. iYes, but it feels… feeble to say so, mind-brother./i

iAgreed,/i Murtagh said. iBut we must speak to ugly now, so let's leave this conversation behind us./i Murtagh shifted in the saddle, but made no indication that he had any further plans of moving.

iAren't you going to get down to speak to him?/i Thorn asked.

iNo. I want him to look up at /imei while we're speaking, not the other way around./i

Thorn chuckled at that.

Murtagh turned to the Shade. "Tryzan, did you have any luck finding Eragon?"

The Shade chuckled darkly, the sound eerily similar to a Ra'zac's foul laugh. "No. If I had, you would know. I take it that your search was just as useless."

"Unfortunately," Murtagh sneered, looking past the Shade to search for the fourth member of their meeting.

"Guard your tongue, little Rider," the Shade said contemptuously. "Remember to whom your are speaking! I am Tryzan, the darkest creature to stalk this land, the bringer of nightmares and the disturber of sleep, the drinker of blood and the slaughterer of villages! I have vanquished thousands of warriors and celebrated my victory by quenching my thirst with the blood of my foes. When I break my chains, this land will tremble under-"

"Where's Draum?" Murtagh asked, having completely ignored Tryzan's tirade.

"Not here," Tryzan said, his head flicking briefly to the side in an annoyed fashion.

"I can see that," Murtagh said, annoyed. "But where is he?"

"Not here," Tryzan repeated.

iThe dark one is very irritating,/i Thorn commented. iCan I /ipleasei set him ablaze?/i

Murtagh ignored him. "Tryzan, if you don't know where he is, why don't you just say so?"

"Dare you insult my power? You-"

"Cannot possibly comprehend the limits of your power and will be tortured to death in highly imaginative and painful ways," Murtagh remarked dryly. "Yes, I know. Now, do you know where he is or not?"

"If I was not bound by the spells your lord placed upon me, you would not dare to slight me! But, as it is, I cannot lay a hand on you, which I will lament until the day of your death…"

Murtagh yawned. "So you don't know."

The Shade delegated to remain silent, which was fine as far as Murtagh was concerned. Consigning himself to wait, Murtagh leaned back in the saddle and yawned, glancing around to keep watch for the missing member of their meeting.

His eyes passed distractedly over the Shade, causing him to remember the creature's origins… He remembered how Galbatorix had explained it to him… He could remember it like it was yesterday.

i"You want to know how it is that so many Shades serve me?" Galbatorix had said, chuckling at Murtagh's confusion. "Do you really think Shades are so rare? Men are such foolish things, and magicians even more so. Every magician-or sorcerer for that matter-overestimates their strength at some point or another… And spirits are powerful. Too powerful for humans to control for long. Almost every human sorcerer fails and suffers an early death…" The dark king had laughed at that. "So the real question is not why there are so many Shades, but why there aren't /imore."

Murtagh shuddered then at the memory of how Galbatorix had went on to speak of his travels to find and uncover Shades, and how he had been successful in enslaving three-he had found five. The first of three had been Durza, the one that had taught Galbatorix the black arts he had sought. The second was Tryzan, an ancient and immensely powerful Shade that had existed since the great Dragon War. Galbatorix had barely survived the encounter. Murtagh had never met the third.

As for the other two… Well, Murtagh knew now that the legend that said only three people had survived slaying a Shade was completely false.

More memories came to mind, and Murtagh shuddered. He remembered how Galbatorix had described his experiments with Shades, the different methods once could use to go about making one. He spoke of how creating Shades to be servants and generals was a tricky business. If they were too strong to be controlled, they had to be killed… And on the flipside, they were often to weak to be of any practical use. The solution remained the same as the first. According to Galbatorix, it was a delicate balance… And one he was close to perfecting.

Thorn growled. iCould you think of something more pleasant, mind-brother? Like sunshine and roses?/i

iSunshine and roses?/i Murtagh asked skeptically. iOh, by the stars above, I thought you were a dragon!/i

iIt's a figure of speech,/iThorn said grumpily. iYou could think of a nice, plump deer, but you probably wouldn't find that so pleasant…/i

iTrue enough…/i Murtagh said, lapsing into silence. He resumed his scanning for Draum's arrival, his eyes passing often over Tryzan's completely stationary form. The Shade hadn't move so much as an inch, his tattered robes flapping gently about his body. The hood remained stubbornly over his face, causing Murtagh to wonder if the Shade kept it there through magic.

Impatience growing, Murtagh began drumming his fingers against his arm, rubbing Zar'roc's pommel with his other hand. The ruby's smooth surface felt warm under his fingertips.

iIf you become so bored that you decide to start cutting Tryzan into ribbons,/i Thorn said. iCould you notify me so that I might participate?/i

Murtagh snorted. iI'm not bored, I'm just impatient./i

iWhat's the distinction?/i

Murtagh pushed his long hair back from his face, considering the question. iRight now, nothing,/i he admitted.

iI rest my case./i

iWhy did /iyoui have to hatch for me?/i Murtagh mock complained. iWhy couldn't the green egg have hatched for me instead?/i

iBecause you touched my egg first,/i Thorn said, deadly serious.

Before Murtagh could ask what he meant, Tryzan said, "Rider, where are the Ra'zac? I had thought they would be here…" He sighed, the sound strangely similar to a snarl. "I might have had a much more interesting conversation with them."

"Eragon killed Skyrask and the shorter Ra'zac," Murtagh answered distractedly. "I could never remember its name… And both of the others were injured. I healed them, but they refuse to come out in the sun."

"The one we hunt killed them?" Tryzan said with a brief hiss, his cloaked head rolling on his shoulders. "He must be a worthy adversary."

"I think 'lucky' might be more the word," Murtagh growled. "I have bested him before."

"Have you? It should be no challenge for myself then… That is… Almost disappointing."

Murtagh gritted his teeth, but allowed it to pass. An argument-nay, conversation itself-with Tryzan was among the last things Murtagh wished to indulge in.

"Ah. The werecat comes," Tryzan said. Then, in a darker voice, "He's late."

"It's about time," Murtagh said, looking down the slope of the hill to see a large cat-a werecat to be exact-limping up the incline, hissing and panting. It was not hard to see that Draum was in an incredible amount of pain.

"You're late," Tryzan rebuked as Draum came to the top of the hill and collapsed to the ground.

iForgive me for nearly having my ribcage staved in,/i Draum snapped. As he lay on the grass, Draum's form shimmered and elongated. After a moment, a short man lay on the ground before them, stark naked. Draum was rather stocky for a werecat, his skin hard with layers of muscle and covered in a wide array of white scars. A crescent moon mark curved across his face from temple to opposite jaw, twisting what might have once been handsome features into a grotesque countenance.

"Some assistance… if you… please," Draum panted, gritting his teeth together as the sunlight glistened along the sweat beading on his skin. His arm hung at an awkward angle, and his side was lumpy and bleeding.

"How were you injured?" Tryzan asked, not sounding interested in the least.

Draum coughed, spitting blood onto the grass beside him. "Ran into… Eragon… and the elf." He coughed again, still panting heavily. "As… you can see, I took the lesser hand."

"That would be apparent," Tryzan said dispassionately. "Where did you find them?"

Draum tried to speak, but became consumed by a fit of coughing, spitting up blood every few breaths. It was a pitiful sight, the man thrashing on the ground, coughing up blood and groaning in pain.

Murtagh, taking pity on the werecat, cast a spell of healing, drawing from the strength of the submissive Eldunari in his saddle. Draum's coughing ceased as his arm snapped back into the proper position.

He sat up, taking a deep breath. "Thank you, Rider," he said gratefully.

"Where did you find them?" Murtagh pressed, the back of his neck burning at the were cat's thanks.

"Several miles south of here," Draum said. "I wounded the Rider… But the elf escaped my claws. I had hoped to force them to use magic to heal themselves."

Murtagh nodded, gritting his teeth at the thought that Eragon might have used magic and escaped his notice. "Did it work?"

Draum looked up at him. "I don't know. I assumed you would."

"It didn't work," Tryzan said. "I have felt no energy displacement this day since morn."

"Do you know which way they were going?" Murtagh asked, disregarding the Shade.

Draum cocked his head to the side, his mouth falling open slightly to reveal sharp, filed teeth. "I would assume they were heading east to bypass the hills." He pushed his shaggy black hair from his face with a clawed hand. "But I can't be sure. It would be the most likely scenario, however."

"East?" Tryzan repeated.

Draum cast the Shade a disdainful look, baring his teeth slightly, but said nothing. Murtagh noticed that his fists were slowly clenching and unclenching.

"Isn't that where the Curse-Breaker settled?" Murtagh asked.

"We can't know for sure that they are going to him," Draum said quickly.

"But he will take them either way," Tryzan said contemptuously. "We must cut them off."

"Afraid of the Curse-Breaker, Tryzan?" Murtagh mocked.

Tryzan bristled. "My power is great, but it would be unwise to test it so blindly against one such as Spellbane. He has slain scores of my kin."

Murtagh nodded. "For once, I agree with you… I don't want to have a fight with the Curse-Breaker." A tinge of fear coursed through Murtagh at the thought.

"Then we must be swift," Draum said.

"It shall not be difficult," Tryzan said. Turning to Murtagh, he asked, "May I slay the elf?"

"No," Murtagh said quickly. "We need her as well. She may have information."

Tryzan cocked his head to the side. "Shame," he said. With that, the Shade turned and sprinted down the hill, his tattered cloak whipping out behind him like the feathers of a raven. Draum leapt to his feet and, casting a backward glance to Murtagh and Thorn, ran after the Shade, morphing back into the cat form as he went.

iWhy would you spare the elf, mind-brother?/i Thorn asked. iThere is likely little intelligence she can offer that your brother can not./i

Murtagh sighed. iThere's no point to it…/i

iAre you infatuated with the elf yourself?/i

iNo!/iMurtagh near shouted. iShe's an elf! Of course I'm not. I can do better than that!/i

iSo you would spare her for your brother, then./i

Murtagh made no answer; the truth was evident. He didn't want to hurt Eragon too badly… He was his brother, after all. And they had been friends, once, even if the circumstances had placed them on opposite sides in the war… Murtagh liked Eragon, even if he had to fight him. He hoped to continue their friendship once he was captured, something that would be nigh impossible if he condoned the slaying of Arya.

iThat is true,/i Thorn said. iBut how far are you going to go for this nostalgic camaraderie, mind-brother? You've spared him once before already./i

Murtagh shook his head. iI know… But he is one of the few people who accepted me as I was, even when he knew my identity. Now, he's forced to, because he has the same father. He's one of my only friends… Must I lose everything?/i

iYou have me./i

Murtagh ran his hands through his hair, meeting Thorn's large red eyes as the dragon twisted his neck to look at him. iI know./i

iI understand you though, if that's what you seek,/i Thorn said.

Murtagh smiled. iI know that. Now, we should get going… We've already been left far behind./i

iDon't you want to stretch your legs first? We've been flying all day./i

Murtagh shook his head again. iNo, is too urgent. Get up./i

iAs you wish,/i Thorn said, spreading his wings and launching himself into the air. A few, short flaps later, they were flying low above the trees, exchanging occasional words of thought with Tryzan and Draum.

iThorn?/i Murtagh asked, squinting as he attempted to peer through the trees.

iYes, mind-brother?/i

iMy legs are going numb./i


	13. Caught by Shadows

"We have to keep moving, Arya," Eragon said, his voice loud in her ear and his elevated breathing hot on her neck. Arya quickened her pace in response, limiting her speed so that Eragon could remain alongside her while the two continued on through the forest. Above them, sunbeams shone down from the descending angle of the sun, poking through the branches and occasionally blinding her for short moments. Branches and leaves snapped against her skin, all ignored in their flight.

What Arya couldn't ignore, despite the growing desperation and general peril of her situation, was the sensation that felt to be burning a hole in her skin: Eragon's hand. The Rider's hand was pressed firmly against the small of her back, continually-and quite unnecessarily-pushing her onward. Because of the movement, Arya was practically under Eragon's arm, something that both frustrated and calmed her. She felt that-for their own good, and particularly her own-she ought to push him away, but their current predicament rendered such a petty action both frivolous and illogical, for as Eragon had said, they had to keep moving.

The notion of which brought Arya's thoughts back to where they should have been all along: their flight. She scolded herself for allowing her mind to wander, particularly now.

"I am well aware of that, Shurtugal," she said stiffly, finding the necessary coldness to speak such all too easy in her distress. Eragon didn't respond, but merely continued to glance frantically about, his brown hair matted to his forehead with sweat. The bandages tightened around the many wounds on his arms and stomach were gleaming with scarlet blood, though, thankfully, not a drop bypassed them.

As it had done for most of the day, Eragon's mind brushed past her own as it expanded outward. Arya, aware of his reasons for doing so, shielded her own mind from his search. It was not out of a desire to shun his contact, but out of her need to keep how she felt for him a secret.

"On your right," Eragon said, his cheek brushing against the point of her ear. "A fox."

Arya nodded and looked off to her right, locating the red fur of the fox after a brief moment of searching. The animal was running low to the ground, leaping through the underbrush alongside them. In all reality, Arya knew that it could not have been there long, for the creature doubtfully could have kept pace with them.

It was then that the creature decided to attack, bounding out so it was running directly alongside her, it's head turned sideways so it could bite and snap at her legs. Arya, without slowing, kicked out with the side of her foot, wincing as the fox's forelegs splintered. The creature howled in agony as she continued on.

"Look up!" Eragon suddenly cried, his hand abruptly leaving the small of her back. Obeying his command, Arya craned her head skyward, sighting the lynx leaping down at her head from the branch just in time. Before the creature could so much as yelp-let alone move its legs to ward off her arm-Arya thrust her hand upward in a closed fist, catching the cat in the sternum and shattering its ribcage. The lynx thudded to the ground behind her.

As Arya grimaced at the death, Eragon's hand swept upward, abruptly brushing through her hair. Glancing up, she saw an angry raccoon writhing in Eragon's iron grip above her head, clawing open Eragon's wrist and showering Arya's head with droplets of the Rider's blood. Sorrow ripped as a sharp pain through Arya's heart as she beheld the sight of Eragon's blood pouring down his arm. Eragon, barely wincing, squeezed once and discarded the raccoon's corpse.

"Keep moving," he said again, cradling his bleeding arm to his chest and soaking up the blood with the bandage on his opposite arm. As they began to run once more, Arya met Eragon's gaze and saw the pain and fatigue in his eyes, the results of the rigors and injuries he'd sustained throughout the day. The Rider needed rest and healing.

"Let me heal you," Arya insisted once more, running alongside the Dragon Rider.

Eragon shook his head, biting his lip as he looked from side to side. A sapling branch lashed across his head, drawing blood. "No," he said, seeming not to take notice of the now bleeding cut stretched across his temple. "We would play right into Murtagh's hands."

Arya, not for the first time, grudgingly conceded the point. The chances were far too high that Murtagh would find them, were they to employ gramarye. For the moment, Eragon would simply have to endure, much as Arya disliked the prospect. It was a hateful sight to her now, Eragon in pain.

Glancing at the wounded Rider, Arya saw the oncoming hawk, but far too late.

"Eragon!" she cried as the avian raked its talons across Eragon's shoulders. Bellowing in pain and surprise, Eragon plummeted to the ground, rolling across the leafy bed and smearing it with blood. Arya, responding with all the speed and grace for which her race was known, stooped, seized a small, hand-sized stone that Eragon had kicked up, and cast it toward the hawk as it raced through the air for Eragon once more. There was a puff of feathers, an ethereal and briefly lasting mist of blood, and the hawk disappeared into the underbrush, its fierce cries abruptly fading into silence.

Arya, assured that the threat was eliminated, rushed to Eragon's side to help him up and assess the seriousness of his new wound. To her surprise, the Dragon Rider was already on his feet, his newly mauled hand clapped over his left shoulder.

"Are you alright?" he asked, wincing in pain as he grabbed her arm and started off again.

"I intended to ask the same of you," Arya answered, noting that his hand shook as it clasped her arm.

Eragon jerked his head sharply to one side. "It's shallow," he said, lying, as Arya well knew by the amount of blood trickling down the Dragon Rider's back. "It's no more serious than the rest."

Arya failed to see the point in arguing with him-much as she wanted to-so she allowed the untruth to pass, hoping beyond hope that they would find shelter, and soon. Eragon couldn't keep this up forever. Not if he continued to insist on blindly shielding Arya every time he believed her to be in danger.

A muffled bellowing sounded off to the right, along with an inordinate amount of rustling and screeching. By the noises, Arya knew there to be an enormous beast moving toward them.

"It's a bear," Eragon grunted, already positioning himself between the beast and Arya.

"It is not necessary to fight every creature that assaults us," Arya said quickly, catching Eragon's pained gaze. "Leave it be. It cannot keep pace with us."

Glancing at her briefly, Eragon nodded and increased his pace, loosening his grip on her arm. The bellowing raged on behind them, but soon faded into the distance, forgotten. Elf and Rider ran on, fighting off the few creatures that were able to catch, keep pace with, cut off, or otherwise cross their path through the forest. After perhaps another quarter hour, Eragon suddenly tightened his grip on Arya's arm-causing her to cry out in pain-and veered southward.

Hearing her protest, Eragon contritely released her. "I'm sorry," he said regretfully, glancing at her.

Arya ignored his apology, focused as she was on their sudden change of course. As far as she knew, they had not yet circumvented the hills. "Where are we going?" she asked simply.

"We have to get out of the forest," Eragon explained. "The beasts are tearing us apart."

"They are tearing _you_ apart," Arya corrected. "I have yet to sustain injury."

"And I'd like to keep it that way."

Arya bowed her head slightly in agreement. "You have yet to tell me where we are going."

Eragon nodded. "The sandstone hills… We'll cross them." A brief sorrow passed through the Rider's eyes, but faded just as quickly. _Brom's tomb is in those hills,_ Arya remembered suddenly as she attempted to derive the reason for the pain in Eragon's expression.

"We will be too exposed," Arya argued.

"It'll still be safer than being attacked every minute or so," Eragon countered without even looking at her.

Arya was silent for a moment. "We can not visit Brom's grave, Eragon," she said softly.

Eragon snorted. "I'm well aware of that, Arya. Boy I may be, but I'm not so foolish as to do _that_."

"As you say," Arya said, enduring her own pain in silence as Eragon reminded her that he was nothing more than boy. Ignoring reason, she glanced longingly at Eragon's face, remembering without enjoyment all the reasons they could never be together. Reclaiming reason and priority, she once again turned her eyes before her. As the two ran, they began to approach a particularly massive oak.

It was then that Arya felt it.

She sensed a violent surge of energy somewhere in the distance to her left, the outburst so powerful that it seemed to echo in Arya's ears. Before she could even wonder what sort of magic could create such a swell, a bolt of fire crackled through the air before them, blasting through several trees-which toppled over as their trunks disintegrated-and colliding with the oak, cracking open the tree with a powerful, echoing concussion. Splinters and flames exploded outward from the tree, filling the air with splinters and tongues of fire. Arya slid to a stop-feeling Eragon do the same beside her-and shielded her eyes in the crook of her elbow as the blinding torrent of flame roared to life and then, just as suddenly, died away, leaving her ears ringing with the force of the explosion. Several bushes and trees were on fire when she looked up, and the oak, it seemed, had ceased to exist.

Just as quickly as the flames had come, Eragon was suddenly torn from her side, leaving Arya to cough for a moment as she breathed in the smoke, her eyes watering. Panicking, she dropped to a crouch and reached for her sword, reduced to swearing when she found that she was armed with little more than a knife. The cold fingers of dread began to grip her heart as she looked around for Eragon.

She found him quite quickly, as fate would have it. The Dragon Rider was grappling with a diminutive man on the ground, growling as tiny fists smashed into his wounds. The man, by Arya's estimation, appeared to be a werecat-presumably the same one they had fought earlier that day- as he was naked and his hands were tipped with cat-like claws. Arya darted forward to assist the Rider.

She stopped suddenly as she felt a presence behind her. It was a familiar presence, the basic feeling of it, but it was new, someone she had never met before. Heart fluttering in terror, Arya twisted around, already fully aware of what was approaching her.

Her suspicions were correct. It was a Shade, at least as far as Arya could tell. An astonishing seven feet tall, the Shade was shrouded from head to foot in a dark, ragged and torn cloak, armored in several places by what looked to be molded leather armor. A silver hilt protruded over his shoulder, and it was evident that several other weapons were concealed in the Shade's clothing. The Shade's hand was extended toward her, pale palm smoking as it extended past the sleeve of the cloak. Arya could only assume it was he that had cast the fire.

"_Ah,_" the Shade said in an echoing voice that resembled several people speaking simultaneously. "The elf."

Arya decided that responding was both ineffectual and pointless. Instead, she drew back her arm, flipped her dagger over so she was gripping the blade, and hurled it toward the Shade, setting aside her fear for a time when she knew better what to do with it.

The Shade contemptuously plucked the dagger out of the air.

As Arya straightened in surprise, the Shade held the dagger before his cowled face, pirouetting the weapon to view it from every angle. A hissing noise filled the air, and it was only after a moment that Arya realized the Shade was laughing.

"You tried to kill me with _this?"_ he said with another laugh, flinging the dagger at the ground. The knife sank blade first into the ground, firelight reflecting off its burnished steel surface. "I'm insulted. After all I have slaughtered, all I have killed, I should warrant a Rider's Blade at the least. But a _dagger_?" He laughed again, more darkly this time. "I don't think so."

With a ripple of cloth, the Shade lunged forward, moving so quickly that even Arya didn't have enough time to respond. Before she knew what was happening, the Shade's hand was wrapped around her neck, lifting her into the air. Arya's air supply was immediately cut off as the Shade's fingers constricted around her windpipe, leaving her choking and gasping for air. Panicked, she scrabbled at the back of his hand, drawing blood with her fingernails and crushing bones with her grip. It was for naught; the Shade's wounds healed as quickly as she dealt them. Arya's toes scraped the ground briefly before she was hauled even higher into the air, kicking ineffectually; the Shade's arms were longer than her legs.

His head still obscured by the shadow of his hood, the Shade cocked his head as he regarded her. "It's a pity that I'm not permitted to kill you."

Arya, ignoring this, reached out a hand and, with the last of the breath in her lungs, said in the ancient language, "Come!"

It was little more than a wheeze, but it was enough; the dagger wrenched itself from the forest loam and sped to her hand. The moment her fingers touched the hilt, Arya seized it and stabbed the immense Shade in the arm, driving the dagger in up to the hilt. Blood splattered over her hand as a wet snap echoed in her ears, alerting her to the fact that she had stabbed the Shade with such force that she had snapped bones with the sheer force alone.

Hissing in pain, the Shade released her, staggering back and cradling his arm to his chest. Arya collapsed gracelessly to the ground, dropping the dagger and quickly healing her own throat as she gasped for air. In the corner of her eye, she saw that Eragon was on his feet once more, engaged in hand-to-hand combat with the werecat, who was using his claws and small body to his advantage, pawing and slashing at Eragon at every given opportunity. Regrettably, it seemed that Eragon had received little training in unarmed combat, and was doing quite poorly, performing little more complicated than throwing quick punches. The werecat, it seemed, had the advantage in this regard, and seemed to be picking Eragon apart at his leisure.

Believing the Shade to be the more deadly of their foes, Arya rolled to her feet to confront the Shade, noting that her opponent had already healed himself.

"You will die for that," the Shade growled, flexing his hand and trudging toward her.

"I thought you were not permitted to kill me," Arya reminded him, lunging forward and slashing her hand at the Shade's neck. Impossibly, the Shade seized her hand with apparent ease and began hauling her into the air once more. Before he could do so, Arya twisted and slammed her heel into the Shade's knee, splintering bone. Staggering, the Shade grunted and dropped her. Landing lightly on the ground, Arya pirouetted and thrust the heel of her hand at the Shade's sternum, cracking several ribs. As the Shade bent over in pain, Arya slammed her elbow into his face. She felt the bone and cartilage of his nose give away under her blow.

As the Shade staggered backward, blood spraying from his nose and mouth, Arya quickly retrieved her dagger with magic and lunged forward to stab the Shade through the heart.

It was already too late. Somehow, the Shade had already completely healed himself, and caught her arm with ease. The Shade angrily dragged her closer to him, so that their faces were inches apart. Despite the hood, Arya could see his face now, and couldn't help but flinch. The Shade's face was sharply pointed, almost painfully angular, and his skin was a strange mass of wrinkles and extremely prominent blue veins, which gave his face the appearance of a map. As with all Shades, his cropped hair was crimson, as were his eyes, and his filed teeth were red with blood.

"You are very irritating," he hissed, spraying Arya's face with a shower of blood.

_Words are pointless,_ Arya reminded herself as a retort came to mind. With her free hand, she prepared herself to slam the Shade's nose back into his brain.

The Shade caught that hand as well, his grotesque expression twisted with contempt. "Treat others how you wish to be treated," the Shade mocked, drawing her back and hurling her through the air. The world turned to blurred lines and flashing lights as Arya flipped in midair, slamming into the ground with such force that the wind was knocked free of her and she could do naught but gasp for several seconds, scarcely able even to _think_ through her suddenly pounding headache. Rolling unsteadily to her feet, Arya dropped to a ready stance and turned to face the Shade.

Blinding pain shot through her skull as the Shade backhanded her, splitting open her lip and sending the world spinning in and out of focus once more. The salty taste of blood filled Arya's mouth as she crashed back down to the ground, blinking blearily. Spitting out blood, she painfully pushed herself up off the ground and slowly got to her feet.

Before she even straightened, the Shade struck her again, slamming his fist into her stomach with such force that Arya's body curled around his arm. The blow threw her into the air and smashed her onto the ground once more. Gritting her teeth against the pain, Arya instinctively curled in on herself, wrapping her body into a tight ball.

_Get up, Arya,_ she said to herself, determined not to be captured in such a way. Mastering the pain, she slowly climbed to her feet and glared at the Shade with defiance.

The Shade cocked his head at her. "Good. You got up."

That being said, the Shade stepped forward and proceeded to strike her once more.

Arya tried to fight back. She really did. But it didn't seem to make much of a difference. The Shade took little notice of her defenses, bypassing her guard with lightning speed, striking her with impunity. Skilled as Arya was in unarmed combat, the Shade continued to bludgeon her with hands and feet, over and over until all Arya wanted to do was make it stop. All she wanted was release from the pain. Her mind was in a haze of pain and desperation as she attempted to ward of the Shade's blows, all for naught. Faded memories, long suppressed, began to spin about behind her eyes, the recollections of another time when she had suffered such pain at the hands of a Shade.

Suddenly, the blows stopped, and a hand tightened about her throat, lifting her high into the air. "Are you unconscious yet?" the Shade mocked. Arya's mouth gaped open as she attempted to draw in breath, but none was forthcoming, and the pain in her neck was becoming unbearable.

_Not again,_ Arya thought in a burst of clarity. Using the last of her strength, she drew back her leg and lashed out.

A sense of triumph filled her as her toe connected with the Shade's chin, knocking it backward on his neck with a sharp snap. The Shade's head rocked backward at an impossible angle, nearly parallel with his back, but still the Shade held her high above the ground.

A ripple of energy shook the air and the Shade's head suddenly righted itself with a series of sharp pops and snaps. The Shade's lip curled back over his pointed teeth as he regarded her with fury.

"I never swore not to kill you," the Shade spat. Metal rasped against leather as the Shade pulled free a long, wickedly curved dagger from the depths of his cloak. "And that was the last straw." The Shade drew back the dagger.

Arya barely had time only for a single fleeting thought; _Eragon…_

A muted thud echoed in Arya's ears as the knife forced itself into her body, filling her chest with blazing, white hot pain. A drained sensation coupled with the violent agony as the Shade pulled the dagger from her chest, freeing it with a cascade of crimson blood. A whisper of breath escaped her lungs, but none rushed forward to fill the void left by it.

"Now die," the Shade growled, dropping her body to the ground.

Arya was in too much pain to comprehend the fact that she was obeying the Shade's command to the letter. At that point, she no longer cared. She just wanted the pain to end, wanted her heart to cease its mindless beating so that she might escape.

Unfortunately, it stubbornly continued to defy her wishes. 


	14. Friend or Foe

Pain exploded across the side of Eragon's head as the werecat's bony fist struck his cheek once more, filling his already sanguine mouth with the taste of his own blood. Scattered coherent thoughts fluttered across Eragon's consciousness before flaming stars danced before his eyes, spraying sparks throughout his field of vision. Lines of fire seared across his skin as the werecat struck him in the stomach, opening several of the barely closed claw wounds carved into his skin.

Even as he reeled back, scrambling to gain his balance, the werecat continued to rain blows down on him, seemingly oblivious to Eragon's efforts to defend himself. No matter how quickly Eragon tried to move or perform one of the many unarmed maneuvers he'd seen Brom or Arya do in the past, the werecat always seemed to turn his every move against him, forcing him to overextend, lose his balance, flail at nothing, or otherwise waste his already dwindling energy. And, all too often, the werecat used his claws instead of his fists, which, in all honesty, were far less painful than the crushing blows he could have dealt, but far more deadly because of the amount of blood Eragon had already lost.

Eragon, frustrated by his inability to subdue the werecat, considered using magic against the creature. He'd thus far refrained from doing so because, first of all, he had never fought a werecat before, and he was unsure of their capabilities, both physical and magical. He had no interest in instigating a magician's duel and being utterly defeated because of his ignorance. But now, he was at the end of his patience, and voiced a spell that could kill the werecat in seven uniquely different ways.

Energy surged out of Eragon at an immense rate, alerting him to the fact that, like the Ra'zac, the werecat had wards around him that he could not bypass. Reeling from another blow to his face, he ended the spell and consigned himself to fight in the more mundane fashion.

It seemed endless, the one-sided brawl, for the werecat continually struck him, over and over, but without a particular goal. It didn't appear to be trying to kill him, but neither could it incapacitate him. The werecat might have been as fast as an elf, but it was not nearly so strong.

Still, the blows hurt.

_I… really need… to work on… unarmed combat,_Eragon thought during a brief lull of pain in which he managed to block four consecutive blows. On the fourth, he seized the werecat's arm and pulled it toward himself, already celebrating his victory in his mind. If it came down to brute strength, Eragon was sure he could win, and he intended to crush the life out of the creature, with a bear-hug, if necessary.

His triumph was backless; the werecat pirouetted, spun, and twisted. Eragon, dumbfounded as to what the creature was doing, exclaimed in surprise as he felt his weight shift forward, his balance leaving his control. He suddenly found himself performing a tight forward flip, upon the completion of which he was slammed harshly into the ground.

The abrupt alteration to Eragon's angle of sight brought his attention-even dazed and stunned as it was-to the fact that a Shade had also attacked them in addition to the werecat, and was fighting Arya, which explained why the elf had not come to his assistance. The knowledge that Arya was facing such a foe-one that, by all rights, ought to inspire a primal fear within her-filled Eragon with a terror of his own, a terror not for his own safety, but one of concern for Arya. Newly braced with a steel-like determination, Eragon scrambled to his feet and advanced toward the Shade, already reaching out with his mind to attack the monster.

He tumbled to the ground once more as something struck the back of his knees, taking him completely by surprise; in his fear for Arya, he'd forgotten the threat of the werecat.

Dirt filled his mouth as he crashed face-first into the ground, mixing with the saltiness of his own blood. Before he could roll over and regain his feet, the werecat settled on his back, between his shoulder blades, pinning him in place. Arya's plight still in mind, Eragon bunched the muscles in his back and stomach and launched himself up and backward, sending himself and the werecat on his back arcing through the air. His efforts were rewarded with a grunt of pain as he crushed the werecat against the ground. The creature released him on impact.

Filled with urgency, Eragon rolled to his feet, drawing his leg back to kick the werecat in either the head or side, either of which he was sure would incapacitate the creature. Still, fast as he was, the werecat was yet faster, and took his legs out from under him with a scything kick before he could complete the move. Tumbling again to the ground, Eragon, untangled his limbs and jumped to his feet, only to be sent flying backward as the werecat kicked him in the chest with both legs.

His breathe fled from his lungs with blow, causing Eragon to feel much like a gasping fish as he flew through the air. His flight ended abruptly as he crashed into a tree with enough force to shake the leaves from the branches. A sharp pain shot through his skull as his head snapped back into the wood, and, for a moment, all the world went black, a throbbing ache spreading throughout his cranium. His heart thundered as a drum in his ears.

Shifting back into focus, the world contracted around the werecat's bony fist as it sped toward his face. Eyes widening, Eragon jerked his head out of the way, narrowly avoiding the blow. The werecat's fist smashed into the tree with a small crunch, though of wood or bone Eragon did not know, and the werecat made no sound as evidence to either.

Over the werecat's shoulder, Eragon caught another glimpse of Arya and the Shade, a clearer look than he had managed before. The Shade was astoundingly tall, shrouded in a tattered black cloak that was obviously concealing a multitude of weapons, short of the massive longsword slung over his back. However armed he might have been, however, the Shade did not have a weapon in hand.

All of these details passed through Eragon's mind in less than a second, overshadowed by the greater detail of Arya's condition; the Shade was beating her. There was no other way to describe it. He was, more or less, doing to her as the werecat was doing to Eragon, except that the Shade's blows were bound to be far more powerful. Arya was reeling back from him, her face contorted in pain. The sight caused Eragon's stomach to knot as a sharp pain settled in his heart.

Eragon paid for his distraction by receiving another blow to the side of the head. Fiery stars once again soared across the surface of his eyes as the pain added to the pounding ache already omnipresent throughout Eragon's skull.

Despite the pain, a new determination, a raging anger, was forming in Eragon, the response to what he had seen.

Rolling with the blow he'd just received, Eragon allowed himself to spin all the way about, lashing out with one leg as he did so and catching the werecat across the back of his knees, sending the creature tumbling to the ground. The werecat seemed so surprised that it did not immediately react, giving Eragon the chance to bend down and seize him by the arms. Growling in pain and anger, he lifted the werecat into the air and slammed him against the tree. Bark cracked and wood groaned in protest to the abuse.

Stunned and winded by the collision, the werecat's eyes slid out of focus-but only for a moment. As Eragon drew back his fist to strike the creature, the werecat kicked him in the gut, causing him to loosen his grip and giving the werecat opportunity to wriggle free. In that short moment, the creature landed-well, catlike-on the ground and performed a spinning kick to the side of Eragon's leg. His thigh went numb with the contact, and the leg collapsed under his weight, leaving him on one knee.

As the werecat completed the turn, it directed its fist toward Eragon's throat, a movement Eragon would likely not have caught if his blood had not been surging with a furious energy. He knew that, if the blow connected, he would likely be rendered either unconscious or dead. In haste, he did the first thing that came to his mind.

"Slow!" he cried out in the ancient language, imagining the air before the werecat's fist thickening and hardening. To Eragon's amazement, the werecat's face contorted in frustration as its fist lost a dramatic amount of momentum. It did not completely stop, but it was enough to render the blow harmless, and gave Eragon enough time to regain his feet and grasp the werecat's arm. Without thinking, Eragon took hold of the surprised creature and hurled it straight up into the air.

There was a violent crack and brief shower of splinters as the werecat collided with an overhanging branch, separating the limb from the trunk of the tree. Both werecat and branch fell insensible to the ground at Eragon's feet.

Without sparing the werecat another glance, Eragon seized the branch-seeing as it was the only readily available object around that in any way resembled a weapon-and spun about to attack the Shade, who now appeared to be holding a struggling Arya by the throat. Panicking and bellowing in fury, Eragon sprinted toward them as the Shade thrust Arya into the air, growling words that Eragon-in his animal fury-could not understand.

It did not phase Eragon, the fact that the branch he held was thicker around than his arm, nor that the end of it was a splintered mess of wood, unpractical for most sorts of combat. All he knew was that Arya was in danger, and the Shade was presenting that danger.

The animal within Eragon desired only one thing; remove the danger.

It did not matter to Eragon that his new prey was one of the most deadly beings in Alagaesia, nor did it matter that he was armed with naught but a stick, whereas the Shade was armed with what appeared to be an arsenal fit for a small army. There was nothing, short of the red that tinted his vision and the gong that sounded in his ears, nothing beyond the inviting target that was the Shade's back. Still bellowing, Eragon lunged forward, thrusting the stick in front of him with all of his strength.

The Shade jerked fully upright as the branch protruded from his chest with a cloud of blood, grunting briefly in pain before his lungs punctured. Though Eragon could not see the Shade's face because of the hood he wore, he could tell it was surprised by the way it tilted its head down to the foot and a half section of the shaft of wood projecting from his breast. Groaning and gagging horribly, the Shade collapsed to his knees, dark blood cascading from around both sides of the branch. Eragon howled in triumph as the Shade's skin began turning gray, though he quieted as a dark, pulsing cloud coalesced around the monster. There was an earsplitting cry, and the Shade vanished. His cloak hung in the air for a moment more before crumpling empty to the ground, weapons concealed within clanging against each other before settling to the earth.

It was the cry that told Eragon that he'd missed the heart, though he barely processed the thought as he rushed to Arya's side. In his haste, he didn't immediately see what he should have until he reached down to help Arya get to her feet, and felt a warm, sticky substance coat his fingers.

His rage abruptly collapsed into terror as he looked down at his fingers and saw that gore now covered his skin. Looking back to the figure of the elf he so loved sprawled across the ground, he saw blood running from a terrible looking wound in her chest, saw the precious red liquid pooling on the ground about her, wasted as it soaked into the earth. Her beautiful face was white and ashen, and her emerald green eyes, usually so focused and piercing, wandered aimlessly, dull and fading, passing by Eragon's face without any hint of recognition.

There was little time, Eragon knew. There was almost no time. He knew his energy was depleted. He knew that he himself was wounded and would likely die himself of blood loss if he didn't receive medical attention soon. He knew that they would probably both be captured if he was to do what he was planning, and he knew that their capture would likely be the end of the Varden, the end of freedom in Alagaesia. He knew, by the bellows and roars echoing overhead that Murtagh and Thorn were more than likely flying directly over him. He knew all of this.

But he didn't care. The only thing he cared about was the dying woman he was now cradling to his chest.

He opened his mouth to voice the spell that would sustain her life, and likely end his own.

Two, bony hands suddenly clapped down on his neck and began to tighten, cutting off his air supply. Choking, Eragon only then remembered the werecat. Still, he attempted to voice the spell, uncaring. To his frustration, he could not get the words from his throat.

A rush of air abruptly passed Eragon by, ruffling his air and whipping Arya's black tresses into his face. The hands freed his throat, leaving him coughing and gasping for air, still clutching Arya's soft form tightly to his chest. Even as he felt the coldness of her skin, he felt her warm blood soaking into the front of his shirt.

"Away with you!" a voice said from behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, Eragon saw what looked to be an ordinary human man sporting a long silver beard and a large pack on his slim shoulders. The werecat crouched no more than ten feet in front of the man, hissing threateningly. Despite the obvious hostility of the inhuman creature, the man waved him carelessly away, as if he were no more bothersome than a fly. Astoundingly, the werecat-still hissing-slowly backed away into the woods, where it turned and ran, shifting back into its cat form.

It was a confusing spectacle, but Eragon did not dwell on it. He turned his attention back to Arya-cursing himself to the vilest abyss for his lapse of attention-and prepared to heal her.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a voice said over his shoulder. Glancing back again, Eragon saw that only the old man stood there, chewing on his lip as he stared down at Eragon.

Eragon ignored him and began to voice the spell.

Eragon's ties to the magic tore and faded away as he found himself thrust backward through the air by an invisible force. He cried out in horror as Arya was torn from his grasp. His fury mounted as he struck the ground and rolled, oblivious to the small sticks and stones that dug into his back. Without even stopping, he hauled himself to his feet and sprinted back toward Arya, bellowing in frustration as something constricted around his arms and legs, rooting him in place. His cry echoed through the trees and mingled with a roar from overhead. Casting his eyes skyward, Eragon winced when saw a scarlet dragon hovering above him, circling the small clearing that had been created by the blast that had started the fight. The sight immediately made Eragon think of vultures.

Too distressed to consider why Murtagh was not descending, Eragon turned his eyes earthward once more, blinking in surprise when he saw the old man crouching over Arya's prone form, his head cocked to one side.

"Get away from her," Eragon growled, trembling with fury even through his invisible bonds. The old man glanced up, but Eragon didn't see his face. He was too focused on Arya's bleeding form.

"Why, do you want her to die?" the old man asked. "That's what your ministrations would have amounted to, you know."

"I have the means to heal her," Eragon said, his eyes still fixed on Arya's pale face.

"Heal what?" the man asked quizzically, cocking his head to the side. "She's fine."

_Madness,_Eragon thought, closing his eyes in frustration. "She's severely wounded. She'll die if I can't help her!"

The man shook his head. "You don't believe me. That's reasonably stupid, in all reality. I'm quite reliable."

"Forgive me if I don't believe a mad old man!" Eragon shouted. "Now _get away from her!"_

The man sighed and stood, stepping away from Arya's unmoving form. "Always so impatient. Take a look for yourself then, if nothing else will satisfy you."

Eragon was at Arya's side in less than a second after the invisible force released him, and he didn't take the time to consider what that could mean. He was far too busy cradling Arya to his chest once more, his mouth falling open in astonishment as he viewed the smooth, flawless skin through the tear in her shirt. There was no wound, not even blood. Now looking more closely in his confusion, Eragon saw that color had returned to Arya's cheeks, and that she appeared to be doing nothing more than sleeping peacefully.

Reeling in bewilderment, Eragon probed the area where the wound had been, running his finger across the smooth, warm flesh, feeling the hard muscle underneath. Arya was, by what he could see, completely fine, and though his confusion endured, his terror and anger abruptly came to an end, fading away into exhausted relief. Now, staring at the skin exposed by the sizable rent in the front of Arya's shirt, he felt not fear, nor panic or desperation, but something far approaching lust. Exhaling a breath of relief, he hugged the elf's slender body to himself, burying his face in her fragrant hair.

He realized then that the old man was far more than he looked to be, for not only had he imprisoned Eragon with invisible chains, but had also healed Arya completely and totally, even replenishing her blood and disposing with that which had spilled. He concluded that the man was there to help, seeing as he'd healed Arya.

"Thank you, friend," Eragon said, almost crying with relief as he continued to inhale Arya's pine-needle scent. He was too relieved to notice that the pain had faded from his own body, that his flesh was once again unblemished and whole, and that blood no longer coated his skin.

"I'm not your friend," was the old man's answer.

Eragon tensed and looked up, carefully laying Arya on the ground. Slowly, he stood, warily regarding the man that was obviously more than he seemed.

As he'd noted before, the man looked totally unremarkable, appearing to be nothing more than a thin old man with a long silver beard and silvery hair that hung like a veil around his head. His clothes were simple and worn, as was the heavy looking pack on his back.

But on closer inspection, Eragon began to see things, subtle signs that this man was more than an elderly human. The first thing he noticed was that, though the man appeared to be elderly, his skin was completely unwrinkled, and veins pressed out of his smooth skin, betraying the hard muscles underneath. The man was obviously in excellent condition, and far younger than he appeared.

The second thing he saw was the way the man stood, standing casually-almost arrogantly-yet still with an easy confidence, as if the very ground he walked on would obey his will if he commanded it. There was no fear in the man's stance, only easygoing confidence, yet he stood straight and erect, exploiting his full six feet of height.

The last thing he saw-and by far the most troubling-was the point to his ears. It was not an easy thing to see, as the man's silvery hair obscured most of his ears, but the point was undeniable. The man was of elven heritage, yet he sported a beard. _Perhaps it is fake._

"Who are you?" Eragon asked, unable to stop the ridiculous question from escaping him.

"Not a friend," the man repeated, hooking his thumbs under the straps of his pack and assuming a stoic expression.

"Are you a foe?"

"Neither that."

"Than what do you want with us?" Eragon asked, creeping his toe along the ground to kick up the branch he'd used to stab the Shade. The man-or elf-noticed the movement and jerked his head to the side. The branch rose from the ground and flew through the air in the direction he'd indicated, vanishing into the woods.

"You have nothing to fear of me," the man said in the ancient language as Eragon sank into a crouch, preparing for combat. As Eragon relaxed, the man said, "At least not for now."

Eragon, assured of the truthfulness of the man's words by the ancient language, sank to the ground at Arya's side, but all the while kept a wary eye on the man. "Arya," he whispered, lightly shaking the elf. "Arya, wake up."

She didn't stir.

"Leave her be," the man said, twirling the end of his long beard around his finger. "She's sleeping for the first time in her life. Elves don't normally sleep, you know. It's quite an incredible experience after living so long without it. And she needs the rest; she's had quite an ordeal, and has been through more than you know."

"How would you know?" Eragon said untrustingly, hugging Arya to his chest. Despite his mistrust, he obeyed the man and made no further attempts to wake the elf.

The man chuckled. "I know a lot more than you would think," he said. "And you would think quite a lot."

Comprehension dawned on Eragon. "You're Spellbane," he said, remembering the consciousness that had saved him from Murtagh's clutches earlier that very same day.

Spellbane bobbed his head from side to side, "Yes, but that's more a title than a name." He grinned. "I have to say though, I do believe Oromis would disappointed in you for taking so long to figure it out."

Eragon blinked. "You know Oromis?"

Spellbane laughed. "For the sake of time, just assume I know everything you do-and quite a bit more, if you don't mind me saying so-unless I ask you to clarify yourself. I suppose even then you won't be sure I didn't already know unless I tell you."

Eragon blinked again. "What do you want?" was the only question that came to mind.

"Very little, and nothing I can't have."

"Why are you here?" Eragon felt as if he were reciting a list of questions.

"A conversation for another time, but one I will pursue with relish."

Eragon stared dumbly at the mysterious Spellbane. "Who _are_you?"

Spellbane grinned. "Someone you will likely never understand."

"That'll be true if keep avoiding my questions."

Spellbane laughed. "Ah, wit! I was beginning to think it was absent from you. You're not holding up your end of the conversation very well, you know."

"Neither are you."

Spellbane grinned. "I may be talking in circles, but at least I'm talking."

Eragon put his face in his hand, holding Arya with his free arm. "You're worse than Brom."

Spellbane grinned wryly. "'Worse' is relative, but for the most part, I should hope your right. The student learns from the master, after all."

Eragon was too tired to catch the wealth of information in that sentence.

"What do you want from me?"

"As of now, I wish to be your shelter."

"What do you mean?"

Spellbane grinned, but made no answer. Still grinning, he pointed one, long finger up at the sky. A dragon's roar shook the air, and a thudding sent spikes of pressure into Eragon's ears, causing him to grunt in pain. Thorn landed on the ground thirty yards away, roaring and twisting in an irate fashion. Murtagh was in a saddle on the dragon's back, and he looked as furious as his dragon, his dark hair awry and his face coated in a sheen of sweat. Eragon instinctively tensed and picked Arya off the ground, preparing to flee, but stopped when Spellbane shook his head.

"Spellbane, this is no concern of yours!" Murtagh cried, loosing Zar'roc in his hands. The red blade gleamed in the sunlight, taunting Eragon with its bloody visage. "Just give me Eragon and the elf and go!"

"I must respectfully decline," Spellbane said with a childish grin. "On the basis of the fact that it is, as a matter of fact, _very_much my concern, as this effects all of Alagaesia, and I just so happen to be part of Alagaesia."

"Galbatorix claims them as his own!"

"When was the last time I respected any of Galbatorix's claims?" Spellbane said in an offhand fashion, seeming to be speaking more to himself than any present.

Murtagh's expression turned to one of determination. "If you will not give them up, I will take them from you." With no visible prompting, Thorn started forward, nostrils already smoking.

Spellbane laughed uproariously. "You have courage, little Rider, I'll give you that. But both you and your dragon are stunted, and few enough could challenge me anyway."

"We challenge you now!"

Spellbane turned serious. "Do, you Red Rider? Are you so much like your father as to presume you can match me? He was arrogant as well, and I had hoped you had chosen a different path… You must separate yourself from the circumstance. You are young and I am old. You are not yet developed and I have long been of maturity. You have less than a year of experience of being a Rider… And I have over a millennia to draw from. You serve Galbatorix, and I serve no one."

Murtagh hesitated, Zar'roc faltering in its steady circles.

"What have you over me, little Rider? Youth? It matters little when you are of the Undying. I do not wish to kill you-and I could defeat you without doing so-but I do not wish to waste my time… Though it seems I have wasted far more explaining this to you."

Thorn's nostrils flared, small streams of flame bursting out.

"No one will call you a coward for turning away, little Rider, least of all Galbatorix. He will pretend to be angry, but inside he will just be glad that I did not damage you."

Murtagh's face was ashen. "You mock me?"

Spellbane nodded seriously. "I do. It is the kindest thing, under the circumstances. Now begone with you!"

Murtagh hesitated only a moment before sheathing Zar'roc. His face hard and stony, he turned to Eragon. Even from that distance, Eragon could see that angry fire burning in his brother's eyes. "Will you always hide behind the skirts of others, little brother? Will you ever have the courage to fight for yourself?"

Eragon's jaw tightened, but he did not trust himself to respond.

Murtagh bared his teeth simultaneously with his dragon. "You cannot hide forever, Eragon. Someday you and I must face each other again."

"If I didn't know it to be inevitable," Eragon said. "Then I would not be a Rider."

Murtagh didn't respond, but looked to the sky as Thorn, looking very much downtrodden, leapt into the air. The concussions of his wings striking the air forced sharp pains into Eragon's ears once more as the dragon and Rider flew away.

Spellbane turned to him. "Does that answer your question?"

Eragon felt his brow furrow. "Why are you protecting me?"

Spellbane shrugged. "A multitude of reasons. Take the time and maybe you'll discover a few."

"I'm taking the time now to ask you."

Spellbane shrugged again. "Well then, I guess you'll also have to wait until I take the time to explain it to you."

"Give me at least one reason," Eragon argued, quickly becoming frustrated.

Spellbane nodded. "Yes, why not? Balance."

Eragon blinked. "Balance to what?"

Spellbane frowned. "I gave you my reason, now sort it out for yourself." He adjusted the pack on his shoulders and began walking southward, the descending light of the sun glinting on his silver hairs.

"Where are you going?" Eragon asked, picking Arya up and cradling her to his chest.

Spellbane turned about, frowning. "Why, to my home, of course. Aren't you coming?"

"Do I have a choice?"

Spellbane sighed with a shake of his head. "Has Oromis taught you nothing? Don't answer that," he said as Eragon heatedly opened his mouth. "It was a rhetorical question. But haven't you listened? There is always choice, always at least two ways of doing things." He turned around again and started walking again. "You just have to take the time to find it."

Eragon, perplexed, began to follow, electrically aware of Arya's warm breath on his arm. "So I could go my own way if I wished?"

"No."

Eragon took a deep, calming breath. "Then how do I have at least two choices?"

"Your choice is this; to follow me willingly, or be dragged behind me. _That,_little Rider, is your choice."

Eragon shook his head. "There's no difference. That's not a choice."

Spellbane sighed, pausing in his strides. "You will learn-with age and experience-that there is a huge difference, little Rider. There is all the difference in the world." He began forward again. "And regardless, there is still the_choice_."

Eragon opened his mouth to ask another question-as he was full to bursting with them-but froze mid-speech as he felt something move against his chest. Startled he looked down, his heart thrumming contentedly in response to what he saw. Arya was still sleeping peacefully-serenely, it seemed-and her head was resting contentedly against his shoulder, her fingers tangled in the tears and folds of his shirt as she twisted her body closer to his, sighing softly in her throat. Eragon twitched slightly as he felt the tips of her delicate fingers brush against his skin as they slipped through the rents torn in the material.

The sight was so beautiful, so blissful, that it made Eragon's throat catch, made him forget all his troubles-even their current predicament-and spun him into a swarm of fantasies involving the two of them living peacefully and contentedly together, away from the terrors and rigors of war. Instead of being surrounded by bloodshed, death, and soldiers, he saw the two of them encircled by happiness, life, and green eyed children. It was a beautiful, wonderful scene-and was, as such, painful when it left him crashing back to reality.

Eragon blinked, shaking off the haunting image as he stared down at the elf in his arms with concern. "Is she going to be alright?" he called to the silver-haired man walking ahead of him.

Spellbane didn't even turn around, and waited a moment before answering. "She'll be fine. Likely better than even you will."

Eragon wasn't sure whether he could believe the mysterious man-or elf, as it were-but didn't know who else to ask, so he let it lie. He stared at the back of the silvery head for a moment before asking, "Are you an elf?"

"No."

Eragon waited for elaboration, but none was forthcoming. "Are you human?" he pressed.

"No."

Eragon felt his brow furrow once more. "Then what are you? You can't be an urgal."

Spellbane chuckled. "I'm not an urgal, obviously. If it pleases you, I am neither elf nor human, though something in between, much in the same way as yourself."

Eragon opened and closed his mouth in astonishment. He'd been under the impression that his exceptional transformation had been just that-exceptional. He hadn't been aware that there were other cases of the instance.

"I thought I was unique," Eragon stated.

"You are. My condition is far more natural than yours." Eragon met this blankly, and Spellbane seemed to know it. "In case you were wondering, I'm a half-breed."

"How can that be? You told Murtagh you were over a thousand years old. Humans only arrived in Alagaesia eight-hundred years ago. That's impossible."

Spellbane still didn't turn. "Impossibility is relative." After a moment, he continued to say, "My story is my own, and only for the ears of friends and allies. As of yet, you are not either, so I do not feel any particular inclination to explain myself."

Eragon didn't quite know what to say to that, but he came up with something anyway. "You're a paranoid old man."

Spellbane laughed. "Comes with wisdom, boy, comes with wisdom."

"Just how old are you?"

"Now what did I just say?" Spellbane said, coming to a halt and spinning about. "In the last thirty seconds of bandied insults, did you become my friend? My ally? No? Then what makes you think my answers are going to change?"

Eragon opened his mouth to answer.

Spellbane held up a hand, silencing him. "No, don't answer that. I know the answer to that one. You're so accustomed to asking questions that's it's physically painful for you to restrain them."

Eragon blinked. "Actually, yes."

Spellbane sighed. "I know. Now, no more questions."

Eragon slowly nodded, and Spellbane stared at him for a long moment, granting Eragon his first view of the man's eyes; they were silvery and dark, swimming with long ages of experience and great secrets. They pierced through Eragon, caused him to feel as if his entire soul was being laid bare before the razor-like insight of this man, this half-breed.

Spellbane then turned away. "You look like your father, by the way."

Eragon gritted his teeth, hugging Arya closer to him. "I'm nothing like Morzan."

"Who said anything about Morzan?"

Eragon laughed darkly. "I thought you knew all? Morzan is my thrice-cursed father, to my dismay."

Spellbane sighed and increased his pace, muttering. "You're just like Brom."

Eragon hurried after him, startled by the last statement. "You knew Brom?"

Spellbane did not so much as turn around, but said, "Slytha."

Eragon jerked in his steps and collapsed to the ground, Arya falling from his grip. A thick stupor began to grip him, and a darkness began to steal it's way across his vision. As he drifted into the dark world of sleep, he heard Spellbane sigh contentedly and say, "Ah, that's better. No more questions!"


	15. Face of an Old Friend

t was a light that woke Eragon, a sparkling light that caressed Eragon's face with a hint of gentle warmth, a glow that touched his skin once and retreated, only to return a moment later. The backs of Eragon's eyelids turned red with each irregular arrival of the illumination, and, before long, the radiance lured Eragon far enough into the realm of the wakeful that he sat up and blinked, looking around to survey his surroundings.

Waking fully, Eragon rubbed his eyes in confusion as he took in the unfamiliar room around him. It appeared that he was in a cave, though this was a poor description of the place. It was not a wet, dim cave, fit for worms and bugs and other such vermin, nor a dripping, dark, eerie place in which the shadows of nightmares and monsters of legend dwelt. Neither was it bare and dry, with a sandy floor and rough walls, as one would think for a grotto in these sandstone hills. No, for all intents and purposes, the cave was a residence, albeit a simple one, and it spoke of easy comfort and pleasure.

The walls-as the place was a cave-were bare sandstone, though they appeared to be smooth, and they curved and jutted out at angles that spoke of rooms unseen further in. It reminded Eragon intimately of the dwarves and their skill of mining-until he looked down and saw that smooth oak boards covered the floor in interlocking patterns, a hardwood floor that he supposed he would have never seen in the realm of the dwarves. Off to the side, flames danced merrily within a stone fireplace, fed by rounded logs positioned on a metal grate, and in front of the hearth, there were several cushioned armchairs and a plush couch-upon which Eragon sat-arranged around a low wooden table. Sitting against the wall opposite the fire was another, higher table, upon which sat several small cabinets, and above which hung strings of drying herbs. To the left of the fireplace-Eragon's right, as he was facing the flames-was a curving wall interrupted by a single wooden door in the center, and to the right was an open space, a large opening that exposed the room to the elements of the outside.

The room seemed simple-with hints of luxury-though it was littered with subtleties and suggestions of more mysterious, greater intentions, items of fey and magical origins and purposes.

Such were the fairths arranged amongst the walls, displaying different landscapes and places, some of which Eragon recognized and others that he didn't. In one, he saw Tialdari Hall during the prime of spring, rich sunlight filtering down through the trees and falling among the beds overtaken with multitudes of flowers. Butterflies and birds flew side-by-side above them in the yellow luminance, and pollen was almost visible in the air as a cloud of golden dust. In another fairth, he saw Farthen Dur, Tronjheim a white tower in the beam of light from the mountain's open peak, the lustrous marble stark in contrast with its dark surroundings-that is, the shadows of the flat plains encircling it. In still another, he saw the dwarven city of Tarnag, its terrace steps shadowed by thunderclouds overhead and the temple of Celbedeil shining like a pearl at its crest. One landscape he vaguely recognized as Illirea-which he now knew to be Urubaen-from the fairth he had seen in Oromis' hut, and in yet another he saw a bird's eye view of a massive, swirling, foaming whirlpool dragging a ship into the depths. From his geographical studies, Eragon could only suppose it to be the Boar's Eye. Still, there were other fairths along the walls, the images captured from various mystical or wondrous sights, very few of which Eragon could even suppose as to what or where they were.

However, these fairths were not the only evidence to the presence of magic. The air within the cave was cool and comfortable, despite the heat he knew to be outside, and there was always the faint smell of roses… Though there were no roses to be found. Other artifacts presented themselves, like the steaming kettle on the low table that hissed and screamed, though there was no fire underneath it; or the orbs hanging along the walls that glowed with a soft, white light, nearly identical to the glowing globes that the dwarves employed. There were other such artifacts spread throughout the room-like the small, porous glass ball on the table that whistled softly like a flute-but Eragon could not guess their purposes, so he discarded them until a time when he might pursue an explanation to them.

But there was still the issue of the light.

At first, Eragon thought that the pulsing light was the fire, but he was forced to recognize the error in this assumption when the light passed across his face one more, blinding him for a brief moment and drawing his gaze to the opening that was the door. Looking through it to the outside, Eragon caught another flash of blinding light, akin to sunlight striking a mirror, except that this time it remained, a bright star shining some hundred yards up a hill outside the cave. Allowing his curiosity to claim him, Eragon began to sit up in order to investigate.

Something warm moved against his hip, a presence he had not felt before. Now that he was aware of it, the sensation came to him in its entirety, and Eragon found himself frozen from the sheer pleasure of it.

Looking down, he saw Arya sleeping next to him on the broad couch, her slender body tilted toward his, the length of her side pressing against him, soft and warm. Her hands were folded neatly on her stomach, and her dark hair was splayed across the arm of the couch, several locks hanging off the edge as others curled around the attractive curve of her neck, collecting in the hollow of her collarbone. It was an alluring sight, and in more ways than one. For a moment, Eragon was tempted to lay back down and go back to sleep beside her, but he rejected the notion as ill considered… And the mystery of the light still beckoned.

Carefully getting to his feet-so as not to disturb her-he crept to the opening that was the door, glancing often at the fairths hanging about the walls. The floor was completely silent beneath his feet, failing to creak so much as once-which he supposed was no great thing, considering that the wood was likely just laid out atop the stone. Without pausing, he stepped outside, nearly yelping in surprise as he felt an abrupt increase in temperature, from mild and comfortable to near stifling, as if he had stepped through some type of shield that kept excess heat from the interior of the grotto. Mulling over the spectacle-though he had already suspected it-Eragon concluded that the theory could be nothing but correct; only magic could create such an immediate change of heat.

Shaking off the faint nausea that rose from the abrupt heating, Eragon looked around to see a familiar landscape, one he associated with one of his most scarring losses: Brom's death. They were in the sandstone hills where Brom had met his death and been buried… And the hill in front of him looked _very_familiar.

_It can't be,_ Eragon thought, starting forward up the hill toward the light. _How can we be _here?

As his angle to the light changed, so too did his view of it, and thus the light vanished, confirming Eragon's theory. Disregarding all subtlety, Eragon spread his legs and threw himself up the hill in a manic sprint, too shocked and overcome to maintain his composure. When he came to the top, he stopped and simply stared, a silent tear sliding down his cheek.

Before him, catching and refracting the light shining from the sun that just barely hovered above the western horizon, stood a diamond tomb, its single spire rising into the sky, sparkling and shimmering like a branch of pure starlight. Mouthing words in soundless wonder of it all, Eragon stretched out a single hand and slowly took a step forward. Then another, and another, until his hand touched the priceless crypt, felt the warmth left by the sun in the pure diamond. There, just barely visible through his watery eyes and the sparkling stone, was an old, grizzled face, the peaceful face of one sleeping. The face of an old friend.

"I promised I would return," Eragon whispered, blinking as a few more salty tears escaped his eyes. "And I have."

Brom made no answer, as the dead are wont to do, but remained serene, his body as perfectly preserved as when Eragon had last seen it. Eragon, now regaining control, halted his tears and simply stared at his old friend, his mentor. All the world seemed silent then, quiet and peaceful, like Brom in his tomb.

"I miss you," he said through the lump in his throat.

"He would say the same, were your roles reversed," said a voice at his shoulder. Eragon barely looked up; he knew it to be the Curse-Breaker.

So he maintained his longing gaze on the tomb, stretching his callused fingers out along the smooth diamond. "I don't think he would," he said, wiping his face clean with his free hand. "Brom was always stronger than me… My death would not have affected him nearly so much as his has affected me."

"Don't be so sure," Spellbane argued as he stepped to Eragon's side, a taunting tone to his voice. "You knew so little of him when he was alive… How much more do you think you can claim to know now that he is dead?"

Eragon instinctively opened his mouth to argue, but closed it when he realized that Spellbane was right. After an silent moment, he said in a quiet voice, "The old man enjoyed his secrets."

"That he did," Spellbane agreed with a nod. "He acquired that from me, I'm afraid."

Eragon's curiosity reared up to near unbearable levels at the statement, but he managed to restrain his questions, fully aware that the half-breed would avoid the query entirely. The effort set an uncomfortable itching feeling across the back of Eragon's neck, a sensation that was nearly painful because of his desire to know more about his old mentor.

An awkward silence settled over the two as they stared down at Brom's peaceful expression.

"You look like him, by the way," Spellbane added, almost as if an afterthought.

Eragon, startled, blinked and said, "What?"

Spellbane jerked his chin down at the crystalline vault. "Brom. You look like him." The ancient man flicked his silvery eyes at Eragon's face. "Or, rather, you would have, had you not gone and had your face rearranged." The man sighed. "As it is, the resemblance is blurred and mostly lost."

Eragon turned his confused gaze to the Curse-Breaker. "What are you talking about? Why would I look like Brom?"

Spellbane sighed stroked a hand down his beard. "You know, you're really quite dull for a Dragon Rider. Blind, really. Honestly, it's like you purposely avoid that which is staring you in the face."

Eragon frowned and folded his arms, feeling a flare of anger. "Could you just answer the question instead of dancing around it? This is no ballroom."

Spellbane chuckled and looked away to the west, his silvery hair turning to copper as they caught the dying light of the sun. "No, I don't think I will. Figure it out yourself; your brain, it seems, could use the exercise."

"Are you saying," Eragon pressed, ignoring the insults that were no doubt meant to distract him. "That Brom is my father?"

"Well, that's quite an assumption to be making!" Spellbane said. "Do you have any evidence to accredit it?"

_Could it be true?_Eragon wondered, confused. Given his revulsion of the man he believed to be his father, he wanted desperately believe that Brom was his sire… It made sense, didn't it? The old man had remained in Carvahall for over a decade-but had it been to keep an eye on his enemy's heir… or to be close to his own?

Looking down from the Curse-Breaker's face to the sandstone at his feet, Eragon searched his memory, bringing scenes and images before his eyes of events long passed, trying to find the truth in the scattered certainties of his own recollections…

He remembered his childhood years in Carvahall, remembered how Brom, usually impatient and brusque with others, always took the time to answer his questions and talk to him, even if it appeared that he was quite occupied with something else…

He remembered standing across from Murtagh in a dark room, while his brother told the story of his life, how his mother-their mother-had disappeared for months before returning in poor health… It was a memory he had before accepted because he had thought that Morzan was his father.

He remembered talking to Angela in the city of Teirm, asking her why she was surprised at Brom's death, despite the fact that she had foretold it. Even now, her words seemed to echo in his ears…

_"…Brom was cursed in a way. It was his wyrd to fail in all his tasks except one, although through no fault of his own. He was chosen as a Rider, but his dragon was killed. He loved a woman, but it was his affection that was her undoing…_

Eragon blinked as the image of the curly-haired witch faded away, her last words echoing hauntingly in his ears. _He loved a woman, but it was his affection that was her undoing…_

The words continued to echo as Eragon slowly raised his eyes to Spellbane's face. _It was his affection that was her undoing…_

_Could it be?_ Eragon wondered, wishing Saphira was there to help him clear his thoughts. _His affection was her undoing… Could he have impregnated Selena to hurt Morzan?… Could Selena been a spy for the Varden, but secretly Brom's consort?_

Further theories spun through Eragon's mind, some hopelessly outlandish and others simple, yet repulsive, and none seemed to fit. It came to the point that Eragon stopped the thoughts flat, refusing to make any further assumptions-including whether or not Brom was his father-until he had more information.

Still… The idea that Brom was his father fit, made sense. It gave Brom's every action new meaning, in many places where meaning had previously been a mystery.

Looking up, Eragon met Spellbane's gray eyes.

"Well?" the Curse-Breaker pressed. "Do you?"

Eragon folded his arms and turned away to stare down at Brom's tomb once more. He waited several moments to answer, "It could be true… It makes sense. But… No, I have no proof."

Spellbane nodded. "True enough. Fortunately for you, I know the truth." Eragon turned sharply back to the silvery man. "Unfortunately for you, there's no reason for me to tell you."

Eragon inhaled sharply, anger building. He rounded furiously on Spellbane. "Why? Why is there no reason to tell? What harm could it possibly do? What… What _balance_could it possibly upset?"

Spellbane calmly opened his mouth to answer, but Eragon was too upset to stop.

"You've avoided questions about yourself, which is understandable, but now you refuse to tell me something about_myself_that you know? And a harmless piece of information at that! You've insulted me, knocked me unconscious with magic, likely dragged me up the mountain-"

"Are you quite finished?" Spellbane asked, an amused grin turning up his beard. Eragon felt his chest swelling with air in his fury, but found himself to be quite effectively speechless; he had nothing more to say. Spellbane filled the silence, "For your information, I did not knock you out, I simply put you to sleep-there is a difference, you know-and I did not drag you up the mountain; I levitated you up it. And my insults are perfectly justified, because, as a Dragon Rider-a Dragon Rider in _training,_no less-you need to be aware of your faults and shortcomings so you might fix them. And I find you quite slow; you really should work on that."

Eragon blinked, his speechlessness persisting.

"Oh," Spellbane added. "And I did save your… Well, not your life, but I saved you from quite a grim fate-as far as your estimations goes-so you should be grateful, not angry at my general furtiveness."

Eragon blinked, able to do little but stare. After a moment, he shook his head and said, "So are you going to tell me anything about my heritage or not?"

Spellbane cocked his head to one side, causing his hair to fall away from his unnervingly unwrinkled face. To Eragon's frustration, the half-breed wore an amused expression. "Eragon. I've more or less already told you who your father is. This agonizing over a clear statement is amusing, but unbecoming."

Eragon felt his hands trembling. "I would have one anyway."

"Your father is Brom," Spellbane said simply in the ancient language.

Eragon's legs failed him, and he fell dazed on his rear. Breathing heavily, he leaned back against Brom's tomb, desiring more closeness to the man than he had before. Though he was shocked, he found himself… Happy, to know that Brom was his father, though he only had the word of an ancient magician of unknown sympathies to rely on… Still, it was an easy truth, and far better to accept than the one Murtagh had given him. But could he believe it?

"How can I know for sure?" Eragon asked aloud.

Spellbane answered, "You can't, really. Selena-your mother-was Morzan's consort, after all. You _could_be Morzan's son. Though I would be inclined to think-as Brom was-that you're Brom's son, seeing as you look something like him. Or did, anyway, before you were changed."

"Not helping," Eragon said, leaning his head back against the sun-warmed diamond. Despite Spellbane's words, he bore a subtle smile on his face, an expression of relief, for he now was firmly of the belief that Brom was his father, if only because the alternative was so much more horrible.

"Wait," he said suddenly. "I looked like Brom before I was changed? How did you even see me before I was changed?" He looked down at the cave, suddenly feeling very stupid. "That wasn't there before, was it?"

Spellbane laughed. "Of course it wasn't there, don't be ridiculous. I only set that up within the last month or so. It's temporary. And who _hasn't_seen you? Honestly? I've seen you in memories, scrying images, even a couple times in person. I've been following your adventures for quite some time now."

Eragon was confused-the dwelling had looked quite permanent in his opinion-but he tried to hide it. The other nuances of what Spellbane had said seemed more important anyway. "How?… And why?"

Spellbane sighed and slumped down next to him on the ground. "The _how_I will keep to myself-most of it would be beyond your comprehension anyway-"

"Can you please stop calling me dull?"

Spellbane ignored him. "But the _why_is another story ." He shifted and neatly crossed his legs, gentling patting his beard against his stomach. "See, I'm an old man."

"Obviously."

"Quiet, you," Spellbane shot back before calmly continuing. "As I was saying, I'm, more or less, ancient. I may not be the oldest being in Alagaesia, but I'm certainly in the upper ring of them. For this-and other reasons on which I feel no need to elaborate-I see the welfare-or at least the supervision-of Alagaesia as my responsibility. Perhaps not mine alone, but certainly something I can contribute to."

"So you watch. Observe," Eragon concluded. "Like the Dragon Riders of old."

Spellbane nodded vaguely. "Yes, and no. The Dragon Riders watched… But they policed as well. They saw themselves not as the watchers, but as the custodians and-though they would never have admitted it-rulers of Alagaesia. They involved themselves in politics, manipulated and controlled where they saw fit, and slew in the name of justice-but there was always the question of _who's_justice." He turned to Eragon. "And, almost as often as not, they caused more problems than they solved. It might have been a golden time, but that's speaking only of financial and economic prosperity. They were too powerful, too sure of themselves, and far too willing to establish themselves as masters. They were generous and kind, but, far too often, that generosity and kindness would have repercussions that they didn't plan for, but should have foreseen. It is always so."

"Much like my blessing of Elva," Eragon mused aloud.

"Quite," Spellbane agreed. "But, like I was saying, I am not like the Dragon Riders. I watch, not control. I ensure that things don't go too far. I look at the issues logically-as the elves believe themselves to do-and draw the conclusions for my actions based on the far reaching consequences that could occur, not the subtle prejudice and emotion that clouds the judgment of almost all sentient beings." He waved his hand. "So, naturally, I've been watching your adventures for some time."

Eragon stared disbelievingly at the old man. "You _watched_ as the dragons were slain? You allowed the Riders to fall?" He started to rise, along with his voice. "You allowed Galbatorix to do the things he did? You allowed him to coerce Shruikan, you let the Forsworn turn?" His voice rose to a near shout. "Are you telling me that this entire war is _your fault?"_

Spellbane stared at him coolly. "Calm yourself," he said in a voice layered with malice, a powerful, authoritative voice that seemed to echo with the might of untold centuries. Eragon shivered, no longer thinking the man's voice unremarkable; that tone made it perfectly clear that the vast consciousness he'd felt before resided behind those silvery eyes. "Now sit," he commanded. Eragon could do nothing but obey. Eragon's heart fluttered with fear as he stared warily at the steely gray eyes before him.

"First of all," Spellbane said. "What makes you even think I could have stopped all that?"

That stopped Eragon short. "Could… Could you have?" he managed.

Spellbane waved his hand carelessly. "Perhaps, perhaps not…" he said, shrugging off the question. "It doesn't matter. The point is that I did nothing, as you have accused me of, and that, if nothing else, deserves explanation." He folded his hands in his lap. "As mentioned afore, the Dragon Riders were arrogant and controlling. They had no viable opposition, which, while peaceful, means there is a void where there should have been a block."

"What does that mean?" Eragon asked, his curiosity piqued, as it so often was.

"It means that there was nothing to limit the growth of the Dragon Riders' power. You must understand, they could, more or less, do whatever they wished. They had the political right, and the strength to back it up. Now… If you can't see the danger in this, then you're not worth my time."

"I see it," Eragon said quietly, telling the truth.

"Good. Would you care to exhibit your comprehension and explain?"

"The danger is that the Riders could begin to become corrupted… And that they could begin to abuse their power. Without opposition… There would be nothing to stop them. Alagaesia probably wouldn't have even been able to fight back."

Spellbane smiled and shook a finger at him. "Exactly. 'Absolute power corrupts absolutely'," he quoted. "And the Riders _had_absolute power. Can you imagine a thousand Galbatorixes instead of just one?"

"It would be a nightmare," Eragon said quietly, drawing his knees to his chest and staring at the ground. "It would tear Alagaesia apart… Because after the Riders took over, they would begin fighting one another for control."

Spellbane's smile broadened. "Are you so sure that's not what happened?"

Eragon looked up, alarmed. "Did it?"

Spellbane shook his head. "Not in the way you described, but think… It only took one corrupt Rider to start a civil war amongst them. Can you imagine how much worse it would have been if _all_the Riders had been corrupt, without morals, as Galbatorix is? The Fall would seem a border skirmish in comparison. It would take Alagaesia eons to recover, and that's assuming the dragons survived… Because if they didn't, it would mean the end of elves and humans as well."

Eragon shuddered. "Are you saying that letting Galbatorix take over was the right thing?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying. Galbatorix, unlike the Riders, has opposition; the Varden. Thus, his power is limited."

Eragon held his head in his hands. "How can that be right? You're basing this on guesswork. The Riders might never have been corrupted."

Spellbane shook his head sadly. "There can be no mistake; the Riders were beginning to show signs of corruption long before Galbatorix was even born, let alone when he turned against them."

Eragon was crushed and unsure, utterly speechless. He felt dirty and guilty, as if what Spellbane spoke of was his fault, as if he could have stopped it. Always before, he'd seen the Riders as strong, proud, and ultimately _good._ It pained him to hear them described in such a light. _Galbatorix turned evil,_ he reminded himself. _And he was a Rider. Why is it so hard to accept that more might have been?_

Spellbane continued to stare skyward, seemingly oblivious to Eragon's inner turmoil. "All things considered," he mused. "It's amazing that the Riders avoided corruption as long as they did."

"If it was right that Galbatorix take over," Eragon asked, staring at the ground once more. "Then why did you save me from him?"

Spellbane chuckled. "I suppose I can't get out of explaining myself again."

"Not without putting me to sleep again."

"Don't tempt me," Spellbane teased. Sweeping silver hair from his face, he leaned back and began to speak, "To answer your question, _balance."_

"You said that before," Eragon complained. "Are you going to tell me what that means this time?"

Spellbane chuckled again. "I refer to the balance of power; there must be a ruling power and something strong enough to oppose it. If you were captured, the Varden would not even have the will to fight any more, let alone the strength. They would die away, and Galbatorix would rule unchecked."

"That seems cynical."

"We live in a imperfect world. It can be nothing else, for we are too greedy to form anything else. Balance is the only thing that works. It seems evil-for it requires constant strife-but it is better than the alternative."

"Which is?"

"Desolation. Incessant open war. This way, at least, we achieve some small periods of peace."

"So," Eragon said quietly. "If I defeat Galbatorix… Should I look for you at the end of the road?"

Spellbane laughed. "No, not for a couple hundred years, at least. If you reestablish the Riders, then it will be several hundred years before I would need to worry about corruption again, and far longer before there are enough Riders to worry me."

Eragon looked up, confused. "But what about the balance we were just talking about?"

"If you defeat Galbatorix," Spellbane laughed. "Then you will be too busy keeping the peace and training new Riders to think of taking over Alagaesia."

"But the Rider's would be established, it would break the balance-"

"What did I just say?" Spellbane interrupted, sounding irritated. "It would be centuries before they would become corrupted, and if there's one thing the Riders were good at, it was keeping the peace. Alagaesia deserves a break." He leaned back with a huff. "And you can't end the Riders permanently. The races are too different, they would destroy one another without the Riders as mediators. The world both needs the Riders, and needs the Riders gone. It's a confusing conundrum."

"You don't have to tell me that," Eragon said, massaging his pounding temples. "So if the world needs the Riders… Why didn't you let Galbatorix capture me and have _him_reestablish the Riders?"

Spellbane looked at him as if he were insane. "I should have thought that the answer to that would be obvious. Galbatorix is already corrupt. We'd have endless war and oppression. Galbatorix has too many dark secrets, too many dark contacts… He cannot be allowed to control the Riders. Perhaps Alagaesia… but not the Riders."

Eragon squeezed his eyes shut. "So what can you do? You can't let the Riders become too powerful… But you can't destroy them, because the world needs them. What can you do?"

Spellbane shrugged. "Let someone like Galbatorix rise every thousand years."

Eragon stared at Spellbane. "You're serious."

"I am."

"That would get repetitive," Eragon said, trying to hide his confusion, anger, and revulsion.

"It would at that. But until the different races learn to cooperate without the shadow of the Riders, Alagaesia needs you. And so it shall be."

Eragon put his head in his hands once more and furiously massaged his skull. "I suddenly feel as if my existence is pointless," he admitted. "What's the point, if history is only going to repeat itself like that?"

"The point, as Saphira has told you, is in the act. The world needs you to be at peace, and every living being has the right of peace and happiness, not to mention the meaningful pursuit of both. Until every being in the world agrees with you, that their existence is pointless, you have the responsibility to them to keep the peace. It is not within your right to deny them that."

"What of me?" Eragon said angrily, looking up. "Am I not allowed my own happiness?"

"Can you not be a martyr? Many sacrifice their happiness for that of others." Spellbane leaned forward. "But they do not ask this of you. They ask of you a duty, something with which you can meaningfully fill your time. They ask you simply to exist. They, nor I, demand that you abandon your own pursuit of happiness." The old half-breed smiled. "And, as I have noticed, you have not. Your heart still beats for Arya, does it not?"

Eragon decided that the question required no answer, and he was already busy enough attempting to subdue the flaming sensation in his cheeks and ears.

Still, he was not assured. "But what _meaning_can anything I do have?"

Spellbane leaned back once more, his expression guarded. "If you can't find religious fulfillment, then make your purpose one to pursue happiness, for yourself and others. You exist. Why not relish it?"

Eragon nodded slowly. "I… suppose."

Spellbane rolled his eyes. "You suppose. Stop being melodramatic, Eragon. You do it far too often. Just accept that you exist and move on, stop questioning it. Stop questioning your purpose, for you'll find it whether you seek it or not."

Eragon smiled and nodded, amused and heartened by Spellbane's flippant take on the issue. He looked out over the hills to the west and watched the sun begin to touch the horizon. The silence between the two stretched on for several long minutes as the horizon turned pink, and then red.

A thought struck him. "How are you not my friend then?" he asked, voicing the thought instantly.

Spellbane raised his head. "Pardon?"

"If Galbatorix must be ended, then why are you not my friend? I want to kill Galbatorix. So do you."

Spellbane shook his head. "Galbatorix must die, but this war will be costly… In the rigors of battle, the horror of war, you could become what you fight; an oppressor."

Eragon immediately began to protest, "I would never-"

Spellbane silenced him with a raised hand. "Do not tell me what you will and will not do, Eragon. Many have made promises before-and broken them. I cannot be your friend, for if you _do_become what you fight-and I sincerely hope you don't-then it would be best for you to know nothing of me, because I will oppose you, and any knowledge of me you possess could be used against me. I wish it was not so… But I have seen it happen before. In the same way, I cannot align myself with the Varden, because they too could become oppressors. It is a sad fact, but one that has repeated itself throughout history-particularly human history."

"I promise on the very bones of the earth," Eragon vowed in the ancient language, eager to prove Spellbane wrong. "That will never become an oppressor."

Spellbane smiled sorrowfully. "The ancient language is not so reliable as you think, Eragon. Yes, you can trust promises made in them far more than those in other languages… But they can still be broken. I cannot accept your word, for, at the moment you became an tyrant, you could believe that you were doing it for the greater good of the people."

"If I can't trust the ancient language, what can I trust?" Eragon asked, frustrated.

"Only that which you know," Spellbane said mysteriously. "Perception is everything, Eragon. You cannot trust those who have clever minds, those who can twist their perceptions at will, even if they make a thousand promises in the ancient language."

"How can this be?"

Spellbane was silent for a moment. Then, in the ancient language, he said, "I will kill you."

Eragon, alarmed, leapt to his feet for combat and prepared to flee.

"Calm yourself," Spellbane said. "You are in no danger."

Eragon, obviously, didn't believe him.

Spellbane sighed, but didn't move. A tense moment passed, in which neither party stirred so much as a finger.

Finally, Spellbane indicated his completely peaceful appearance and said, "See?" He gestured downward at his body again. "Perception is everything. I said I will kill you, but I did not specify the time in which I would. I could do it right now, or I could wait a thousand years. Or I could force myself to constantly put it off until the day you die, at which point the oath becomes useless, for it cannot be fulfilled. I can do all this without violating the terms of my oath."

Eragon wearily sat back down, not entirely believing but beginning to understand the point. "But you're not going to kill me?"

"No," Spellbane chuckled. "But I see you understand. The clever mind can twist his beliefs in an infinite amount of ways. I'll probably never lay a hand on you."

_Until you deem me corrupt,_Eragon thought. Outwardly, he said only, "I see."

"Do you?" Spellbane teased.

Another silence stretched between them, in which the sun sank another couple degrees down through the darkening sky. Eragon watched the celestial body descend without seeing it, consumed as he was by the conversation he'd had those past few minutes.

"But you _will_help me?" Eragon said finally.

"To a point, yes."

"Then why have you not showed yourself before now?"

Spellbane sighed. "I am a watcher, Eragon. I cannot involve myself in the matters in which you have been involved. I am far older and far wiser than the leaders of this age, and all the ages after this, for there will never be one older than I that does not already exist. They would not accept my wisdom and counsel, because to them, it would seem cynical, sacrilegious, pointless, and counterproductive-which, concerning most of their long term interests, it is. I will not rule, and I will not fight. I have fought my fights, and, more often then not, I know the best way, even if it doesn't seem to be the best way to others. If I were to be as involved as yourself… Well, as I said before, absolute power corrupts absolutely. I am no exception, I am not immune. I would become a ruler, an oppressor, and though, no doubt, I would be kinder than Galbatorix, I would lose sight of my mission."

"But you will fight?"

Spellbane smiled wryly and shook his head.

"Then what will you do?" Eragon asked, frustrated.

"I will offer intelligence. I will tell you what you need to worry yourself with. I will warn you before you go too far. And I can tell how you to defeat Galbatorix."

"You will teach me, then?"

"No, not even that. To teach you, I would become attached to you, and you to me, and neither of us can have that. You have other teachers; rely on their knowledge. You still have Oromis. Once he is gone… If you have no one else, then I will teach you. But for now… I will only observe, and tell a little."

Eragon tried to hide his disappointment, but was sure he failed. "Then why not before now? Why have you not approached me before?"

Spellbane stared at him. "Because, had I appeared before now, I would have interfered. Things would be different… And so would you. You didn't need me before now."

"I can think of plenty of instances where I could have used your intelligence," Eragon retorted. "Or help."

"It was never the right time… And I was indecisive. I had hoped you would not need me at all. I delayed because of that… As I said, I prefer to observe… But now I will counsel you."

Eragon was still disappointed, but, in a way, he could understand Spellbane's hesitation. "Then tell me how I may defeat the dark king," he said gravely.

Spellbane smiled and raised his left hand toward the cave. Moments later, a large, red stone flew from the entrance and settled on Spellbane's lap, flipping up the half-breed's beard with a faint wind. Eragon stared at the stone, mesmerized by the way it glowed and pulsed, as if it were alive.

"What…" he began, but stopped, unable to speak through his dry throat. He swallowed and continued. "What is that?"

"This is Morzan's dragon… His name cannot be spoken."

Eragon felt his brow furrow in his confusion, his mouth in awkward incredulity. "What…? How…?" His mouth opened and closed ridiculously. "That is not a dragon," he said stupidly.

Spellbane grinned. "To defeat the king," he said. "You first must know the secret of his power."


	16. To Open Eyes

Darkness. It was a sweet oblivion, a void of thought and feeling. It covered Arya like a soft blanket, downy, warm, comforting… There was no worry there, no concern, and certainly nothing that could upset her. Strangely, it was restful too, comfortable in a way that something so unfamiliar ought never to have been.

Being the only comfort she had received in some time, Arya was only too glad to allow this strange new darkness to continue, and was, in a way, irritated when it began lighten.

By her last memory of agony, Arya knew she should be dead, but didn't dwell long on the thought because she was so clearly alive. Someone must have saved her, or spared her for torture, and the reasons would present themselves soon enough.

Feeling rather groggy-another unfamiliar feeling, though not completely alien-Arya half opened her heavy eyes and glanced around to assess her surroundings. Was she in a prison once more, a grinning Shade at hand with a glowing iron in his grip? Or was she in a dark cave, with Eragon worriedly hovering over her because she might need help, as his ridiculous ideas of women being the weaker sex told him? Perhaps she was in another place entirely. Perhaps Eragon was not even about.

She was correct about the cave at least, as Arya could tell by the craggy ceiling and stone walls, though she was sorely mistaken about the dark; a fire flickered in a hearth not more than eight feet from her. And neither was Eragon hovering, though Arya reasoned that his current action could be interpreted as a form of the word.

Eragon was, in fact, pacing before the fire, his arms crossed stiffly before his chest and his eyes riveted on the ground as he beat his sullen path. There was something strange in his expression, a dark, thoughtful look that seemed wrong on Eragon's typically innocent face. Something had troubled him deeply, and he was obviously unsure what do with it, if his relentless, silent pacing was any indication. The sight instantly inspired Arya's own worry, for she knew that any troubles of Eragon's-particularly in their current predicament-were also her own. For a moment, she suffered a brief temptation to ask him whatever was the matter, to try to comfort him… But she rejected it with a vengeance, overwhelmed by her disgust for her own desires. _How improper,_ she mused to herself, continuing to follow Eragon's stiff strides across the room with her eyes, and with her ears the incessant tapping of his boots against the surprisingly wooden floor.

Disregarding Eragon in much the same dutiful sense that she so often disregarded herself, Arya slowly sat up and allowed her eyes to roam the room, taking in her magical surroundings. It was a strange room, to be sure, containing a mixture of different cultures that Arya had thought incompatible. The room held a number of things that confused her, such as the fairth-so clearly an elven invention-sitting side by side with the icon of Guntera, the dwarven king of gods. The room appeared to have the structure of one built by dwarves, yet it contained art typically fawned on by elves, and throughout all this had the simple comfort of a human residence-such as the chairs and the couch she sat on. She even saw the edge of an urgal namna hanging out of a large drawer.

"You're awake!" Eragon said, drawing her gaze away from the peculiar room to his smiling face.

Arya met his gaze evenly as he approached, and knew by the glint in his brown eyes that he was worried about her, even if his outward pretenses showed little beyond companionable concern.

"Clearly," she responded, dutifully edging away from him as he sat next to her on the couch. Reaching up and combing her fingers through her tangled hair, she put a veil of black locks between her and the Rider.

He was silent a moment, no doubt in response to her less than cordial greeting.

"I thought I was going to lose you," he said quietly.

_It may have been better for all concerned if you had,_ Arya thought, closing her eyes and almost reverting to her childhood habit of biting her lip. _So unbecoming._

"Where are we?" she asked, steering the already uncomfortable conversation from dangerous realms, and concluding that their location would give her the essential information of their situation.

"The sandstone hills," Eragon replied, sounding irritated. "We're in a cave… Near Brom's tomb." Arya glanced through a gap in her hair at him and saw a faint smile returning to his face. "We're at the home of a friend."

_A friend,_ Arya thought disbelievingly. _Why must he be so trusting? So naïve?_

Still, for the moment, she allowed it to pass, for her curiosity was leading her toward other directions. If her question was answered correctly, the name of this "friend" would be revealed anyway.

"How is it," she began. "That I am alive, and that we are safe and well?" _At least as far as I know,_ she amended internally. Eragon did not immediately answer, so, wondering at the delay, Arya looked up at him and saw a dark shadow pass across his face. There was a pain in his eyes, and also guilt, though Arya could offer explanation to only one of these.

Leaning toward her, Eragon reached out for her hands. Arya simply watched this movement at first, did nothing as the Rider reached for her. His expression was not hopeful as she would have thought, but concerned and horribly exposed. In that moment, Arya realized how close to the edge the Rider was, how utterly broken he was. His hands shook, and his hair was unkempt, as if he had repeatedly ran his hands through it. Shadows hung darkly under his eyes, and others of more malicious origin within them. It was clear to Arya that something had happened to him.

In this, Arya recognized a unique dilemma she never, in her hundred years, could have foreseen, for that was just the way she was. She could comfort Eragon, or at the very least let him take her hands and derive whatever assurance from it that he could; or she could-as she should-follow her duty and withdraw from him, knowing full well that any closeness Eragon experienced with her-and likewise she with him-was well dangerous and quite improper, given their past and prominent positions. Yet… Eragon seemed so _vulnerable_, so close to losing control. She felt compelled to comfort him-and she knew it was wrong. It was an ancient story, one Arya had seen more than once in her time among dwarves and humans… But that did not make her feel prepared.

Arya was no stranger to pain, and could easily cope with her own, but she hadn't the faintest idea how to manage the pain of another.

Heart fluttering rebelliously in her chest, Arya did nothing as Eragon's trembling, callused fingers gripped hers, enclosing her slim hand with his rough, warm skin. Again nearly biting her lip in the sudden electric feeling of discomfort, Arya looked up into Eragon's brown eyes, forcing her hand to remain limp in his and her back stiff and straight.

"When the Shade stabbed you…" Eragon began in a shaking voice, breaking off and looking down at their joined hands, as if ashamed. "I thought you were dead. There was so much _blood_…"

Arya closed her eyes, unsure what to do. No one, except perhaps Faolin, had ever opened themselves to her like this before. Additionally, Faolin had never had reason to appear as Eragon did now, and likely would have refused to anyway. She felt completely lost, and was in no way inclined to find the sensation even acceptable, let alone pleasant.

Eragon's hands continued to tremble as they surrounded hers, tightening almost painfully, as if he were afraid she were about to disappear. "I… I stabbed the Shade. With a branch. I wanted to kill him so badly… It was the only thing I wanted. And I enjoyed it, because he hurt you."

Why did Arya feel pleasure at something so horrible?

Eragon was silent for a moment, and his grip loosened even as his shaking began to slow. "I missed the heart…" Arya heard him mutter to himself. "How could I have missed…?"

Arya was unsure what to say, although she thought she should say something-even as she felt brainless as many of the flighty human women she had seen in the past for feeling such. Even so, she remained silent.

"Seeing you hurt," Eragon said, voice somehow steady. "I… I don't know what came over me. All I wanted to do was kill him. Torture him. There was nothing else…" He swallowed convulsively and looked up at her, his brown eyes dark and warm. "Besides you."

It was Arya's turn to look down at their hands. She felt another blow of guilt and self-disgust at the sight. "Eragon…" she said, working to keep the pain out of her voice and to leave only the warning.

Eragon's trembling stopped. "Arya," he said, carefully pronouncing the name. "I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't be telling you… Shouldn't be talking to you like this, but… I wanted you to know how I felt. It was part of what happened after he… After he stabbed you."

Arya refused to look up, but neither could she move, however she knew it was time to. Likewise, Eragon did not release her, but began to squeeze her fingers in a comforting way, all the while slowly rubbing small circles on the backs of her hands with his thumbs. Arya watched without complaint as he did this, astounded by how _nice_ it felt, how _comfortable._

She realized then how easy it would be to give in. How simple it would be to respond to the Rider, to fall into his arms and be comfortable. Her hands were still limp in his; all she had to do was squeeze once in return… And the bridge would be gapped. Eragon was so forgiving. He didn't care that she had spurned him so many times already, he was still willing to take her into his arms. It would be so easy. So simple. _And so wrong._

So Arya thought as she stared down at their hands, still wondering at the sheer comfort in the gesture. It was a wonderful feeling… But it did not completely outweigh her disgust.

Abruptly, Arya firmly pulled her hands from Eragon's-whom released her without protest-and stood, relocating herself on one of the chairs, where she sat primly and crossed her legs. Silently, she noted that, despite her distance from the Rider, the discomfort didn't cease.

Eragon was staring at his feet when she looked up, still frozen in the same position she had left him in. Arya felt her ears burning with shame.

"After the Shade was gone," Arya said, forcing herself to look away from the Rider. "What happened?"

Eragon was silent for a moment. "I was going to try to heal you," Eragon said, leaning back into the couch. "I was stopped twice… Once by the werecat, and once by Spellbane." He sighed wearily and leaned his head back on the couch to face the ceiling. "In doing so, he probably saved my life as well."

Arya stiffened. "Spellbane," she repeated in shock.

"The very same," Eragon said, straightening his neck and looking at her. "Or so he says. Do you know of him?"

Arya opened her mouth to say that, yes, indeed she did know of Spellbane-and that she was surprised that he did not-but stopped when an alien presence touched her mind, a consciousness so ancient and clever that it dwarfed even Oromis' vast intellect.

_If you tell him of me,_ a powerful, authoritative voice said, echoing through her mind and reverberating with an awful malice. _Then I will tell him of you, and you can be sure that you won't appreciate that._ With those parting words, the touch of the alien mind vanished.

Though Arya had never communicated with the being before, she didn't have to guess to know whom it had been: Spellbane. Knowing was no comfort. She knew quite well the foolishness of not heeding his words.

"Arya?" Eragon asked. "Are you alright?"

Arya continued to look away from him and answered his original question, "I know less than some, but more than most."

"Can you tell me anything?" he asked with a serious, demanding curiosity, leaning forward with his eyes narrowed.

"This is not the time nor place for such a conversation," Arya said, casting her thoughts about for a new line of conversation. Only one thing occurred to her. "Did you not think to seize one of the Shade's weapons once he was gone?"

She had multiple reasons for asking this, but chief among them was the fact that, with Spellbane in such close proximity, having a weapon would be quite a welcome thing.

In the corner of her eye, Arya saw Eragon blink in confusion. "No, I didn't. It… It all happened so quickly… I didn't think to."

"You were too worried about my safety," Arya found herself saying.

Eragon shot her a strange look, allowing a silence to fester a moment before saying. "I can't argue with that."

Arya sighed exasperatedly and folded her arms. "This was what I feared."

Eragon regarded her with a raised eyebrow. "And what, if I may ask, is that?"

"That your childish feelings would cloud your judgment and cause you to consider _my_ safety, when you should be far more concerned with your own." Arya turned her eyes on the Rider, mastering her will into iron as she stared into the Rider's eyes. "I am not one to be deluded, Shurtugal. You are far more important than I."

Eragon met her gaze evenly, a fire burning in his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. You're an ambassador, the princess of the elves-"

"And also the woman you believe yourself to love." Arya was shocked by her own words; she had not desired to go as far as to state the issue so clearly and bluntly.

Eragon stiffened, and then relaxed, though his face did not. In a careful voice, he said, "I won't deny it."

"And that," Arya said, uncrossing her legs. "Is the source of the problem." Refusing to look at Eragon anymore, she turned and stared into the flames in the hearth, seeking answers in the twisted depths of the dancing tongues.

"I don't understand," Eragon said.

Arya decided not to explain the issue to the Rider, as the conversation that would likely ensue was not one she felt entirely comfortable with. In her decision, silence settled between the two, broken only by the faint crackling of the fire.

"Shurtugal," she said at last, glancing out the large entrance and noting the darkness outside. "It is late, and the events of this day have been trying at best. You should be exhausted. Perhaps you should rest."

"I'm fine," Eragon said.

"Do not lie to me," Arya said, glancing at Eragon to once again see the heavy bags under his eyes, his weary expression. "You are exhausted. Rest."

Eragon scrutinized her for several moments before standing with a short nod. Without pausing, he turned his back to her and walked toward to the single door in the curved wall at the back of the room, by all appearances knowing full well where he was going. The door opened silently at his touch, but he hesitated before crossing the threshold into the lowly lit hallway beyond.

Turning to face her, he said, "Arya, I still don't know why you are so angry with me. And I don't know why you won't tell me anything about Spellbane." Arya forced herself to resolutely stare at the Rider's face as he continued. "I believe you honestly think it is within my best interests to withhold this information from me, but I want to say that… I trust you." His voice took on a frustrated edge. "Confound it all, I trust you. How can I not?" His eyes flicked about her face, as if expecting an answer. None was forthcoming, so he went on, "That being said, I also want you to know that you can trust me. I'm a Dragon Rider, and if I can't handle it, I'll become stronger so that I can. That is my responsibility, to myself, to Saphira, and to the people of Alagaesia. I may be the age of a child, but I have long since passed that threshold from boy to man. I was forced through it against my will, but the doorway has indeed been passed." Arya shifted uncomfortably. "I am past the point where people can rightfully withhold information from me simply because they think I'm not strong enough to bear it, or wise enough to manage it. I am a Dragon Rider. I _must_ cope with it."

Arya sadly watched him turn back to the door, hoping beyond hope that what he said was true. But it couldn't be… He was barely seventeen years old. Even by human standards, he was young enough to be naïve.

With his back to her, Eragon said one more thing before going through the door. "I just hope you'll remember all this next time you debate whether or not you can trust me, Arya."

The door slammed behind him, leaving Arya staring at the rich wood with the feeling that a hole had been punched through her heart.

"That went well," a voice said from behind her.

Jumping in surprise, Arya threw herself from the chair, leapt over the furniture before her, and turned to face the newcomer. Almost out of habit, her hand reached for the dagger she kept on her person at all times, only to feel nothing in the sheath.

Spellbane-for it could be no one else-was sitting calmly in the seat she had vacated a moment before, his arms spread along the back of the chair and his legs crossed boldly, the picture of comfort, ease, and arrogance. He looked for all the world as if he'd been there the whole time.

His presence did not necessarily surprise her, though that was shock enough. What _truly_ surprised her was how_old_ the man looked, with his long, silvery hair and beard. Arya knew he was ancient, but had not thought he would look old, as he was one of the Undying. However, she found a moment later that the appearance of age came only from cursory look, and one would find after closer examination that his skin was unwrinkled, smooth and taught with lean muscles beneath the surface. His eyes also betrayed his persisting youth, as the silver orbs swam with vitality and energy, all the while teasing her with untold secrets.

"Orellon," she hissed.

Spellbane raised his hands in mock astonishment. "What a surprise! You know who I am. And my real name, no less! I suppose it's no real surprise, as elves have long memories and great reason to remember me."

"How long have you been there?"

"In this chair? For perhaps fifteen or so seconds. It's my favorite chair, you see."

Arya gritted her teeth, clenching her fists in the absence of a weapon. "How long have you been in the room?"

Orellon smiled mischievously at her. "I was here the whole time, if it pleases you, though I can see that it does not." He shook his head. "It is truly amazing what young people will miss when they're occupied."

Arya glanced around the room, searching for something she could use as a weapon. She found none.

Spellbane laughed at her. "There's no need to be so uncomfortable. I mean you no harm, really." He gestured to the chair across from himself. "Have a seat."

Arya opened her mouth to refuse, but stopped when she caught Orellon's eyes. Despite the humor on the man's face, there was iron in his eyes, a malevolent light that made her sure she would regret it if she refused. This in mind, Arya carefully stepped around the chair and sat down, positioning herself on the edge of it so she could get up quickly if the need arose. Spellbane smiled cheerily at her.

"What is it you want of me?" she asked suspiciously.

"What do I want from _you_?" he asked with a laugh. "I personally want almost nothing from you. It is what _you_ want of me."

"I want nothing to do with you," Arya hissed.

Spellbane nodded sagely. "I know. Therein lies your desire; once you discovered who's home this was, you wanted to speak with me, even if to only evaluate how much a threat I pose. Or, rather, you should have, considering I spoke to you at that time." He smiled apologetically. "I am sorry if I frightened you then."

"I am not fearful of you," Arya retorted.

"That is very foolish of you," Orellon said, his silvery eyes dancing dangerously, like dark thunderheads during a lightning storm. His smiled remained as he spoke, but his voice took on the same edge as when he'd communicated with her telepathically.

Arya shivered.

Spellbane's smiled faded. "So… Whether you want to or not, I'm sure your duty requires that you speak to me. Let's have it."

Arya forced herself to remain calm. "What do you want with us?"

"By 'us,' I'm sure you mean Eragon."

"As you have already explained your lack of interest in me, I can only conclude you have interest in Eragon."

Spellbane smiled broadly. "Of course. My interest in Eragon is not unlike the interest everyone else on this continent has in him. He's the first free Rider in a hundred years that hasn't sworn any truly binding oaths to any specific power. He's a quandary, and his efforts will quite literally define the fate of Alagaesia for centuries. It would be foolish of me not to take an interest in him."

Arya found it difficult to meet those silvery eyes composedly. "Yes, but for what purpose? What will you do with him-us-now that we are in your custody?"

"And what," Spellbane asked folding his arms. "Makes you think you're in my custody?"

Arya was too tense to fold her arms, but gripped the chair more tightly. "The fact that I'm in your home at all."

"Quite," Orellon agreed. "You are my captives for the time being."

"And when," Arya asked. "Will this time end?"

"When I feel that Eragon is ready for the tasks I've placed before him."

Arya felt herself stiffen. "What have you done?" she asked harshly.

Orellon spread his hands. "I've opened his eyes to a much larger, much more dangerous world. I have set his feet on the correct path."

Arya found herself standing. "What _lies_ have you been feeding him, _Orellon_?" she nearly shouted.

Spellbane raised an eyebrow at her. "He can't hear us, you know. Yelling won't draw his attention."

Arya winced inwardly, but outwardly remained composed. "What have you been telling him? Have you told him the truth of yourself?"

Spellbane steepled his fingers. "And what exactly is truth, little elf? Do _you_ define truth? Can truth truly be defined? And what is a lie but the absence of truth? If this is true-and if the definition of truth is question, we can't ever truly be sure-then a lie cannot exist, for it is simply a void of truth. And if lies don't exist, how do we define truth? As the absence of a lie? Since lies don't exist, this is impossible, for how do you define something with nothing? In this, we are in a circle, and circles have no clear meaning."

"Do not attempt to confuse me, Orellon," Arya retorted, unfazed. "Truth remains, whether we can define it or not, and you will give me the truth!"

"Does it? To the individual, yes, but truth is different among the masses. Different creatures possess different truths, but how can they all be right? One or two may be correct, but in essence, the mass is wrong, and truth is once again thrown into question. Is there any one entity who can define truth and set its standards? There must be, for without one person's opinion, truth cannot exist." He paused, and then added as an afterthought, "Scientifically speaking, of course."

"In this moment," Arya said, anger quickly becoming unmanageable. "I search for my own truth, or your truth, the certainty of your own history! Have you told Eragon _that_? Have you made him aware of the fact that you are untrustworthy?"

Spellbane smiled amusedly. "You are not easily dissuaded. To judge from the eyes of _your_ truth, no, I have withheld a large portion of the facts from the young Rider, and mixed a variety of truths with the untruths, though many of them cannot be truly called lies, for they are half-truths or varieties of the same. A lie mixed with truth and truth mixed with lie, or a standing combination thereof; truths based on lies, and lies based on truth." With a broad, entertained smile, he shook a finger at Arya. "The point being that they are so well mixed into the muddle of truth and lie, light and dark, that the greater truth is quite well hidden, even though it stares you-rather, Eragon-in the face."

"You are attempting to confuse me again."

Spellbane leaned back with a chuckle. "I am. Are my efforts well spent?"

"Not in my sphere of truth."

Spellbane threw his head back and laughed uproariously, seeming not to realize that his, long silvery hair was falling away from his mischievous face. "Oh, you learn to play. Fancy that!"

"What have you told him?" Arya repeated, determined for a straight answer.

"I told him," Spellbane said. "The things he _needed_ to hear, and a little of what he _wanted_ to hear. No more, no less-though, of course, the sincerity of that must always be in debate." His smile faded, and his expression turned dark. "I have plans for young Eragon, but I will not reveal them without due cause. You would do well to remember that when you presume to interrogate me."

_I must take Eragon away from here,_ Arya thought desperately, sure that Orellon was going to corrupt Eragon, destroy her only hope.

"Malthinae!" she cried, releasing a burst of magic to imprison Orellon until she could get Eragon far from this place.

Spellbane sighed, but made no apparent effort to defend himself. Instead, he reached forward and picked up a mug Arya hadn't seen from the table between them. He sipped from it contentedly, looking away from her as if she were a dull, uninteresting object.

_Something is wrong,_ Arya realized, feeling the drain of strength the spell put on her. Yet, Spellbane appeared unaffected.

Then the drain doubled, and then tripled, pulling energy from Arya so rapidly it was as if a damn had been torn apart in one fell swoop. It surged out of her so rapidly it left her heart fluttering weakly, barely able to beat. No longer able to support her own weight, she collapsed to the ground. She had no choice; she released the spell.

Spellbane continued to sip his drink in a preoccupied fashion, staring into the fire as if he didn't notice her. Arya glared at him with hate from her prone position on the floor, barely able to breath, the mobility of even a finger eluding her. Orellon ignored her.

Finally, Spellbane put his mug back on the table with a sigh and leaned back in his chair. "Do you think I am called 'Spellbane' and 'Curse-Breaker' for nothing? It was very unwise of you to attempt to use magic on me. I know magic like few else. You have not the strength or cleverness to contend with me." Spellbane sighed again. "But that doesn't mean I want you to die."

Arya exhaled in relief as a slow trickle of energy crawled back into her limbs, giving her the continuing ability to live, but not to move. Her anger, however, was still great. "You could have used those gifts to help us, to thwart Galbatorix from the start! Instead, you showed yourself as you are, and joined him, dooming us all. You are traitor to your race-both your races-and to the people you swore to forever protect!"

"You are wrong. I never 'joined' Galbatorix, per se. I helped him along, surely, but I never joined him. I still protect the people, it is only that you are too young and foolish to see it."

"You lie!"

"We have already had this conversation." Orellon then stood and walked to her side, crouching down next to her. "Now, I see that you are one of the few that know some or most of my history, so I have only these parting words: do not tell Eragon anything you know about me. If you do, I shall tell him the thing of you that you fear most for him to know."

"And what," Arya spat. "Is that, if you truly know it?"

Spellbane leaned down to speak into her ear. "That you love him." Arya stiffened, catching Orellon's serious silver eyes. "And that you fear that love, you fear for him, because love has never brought you anything but pain. Faolin. Your father. Even your mother exiled you, because you loved the people enough to fight for them. What peace has love brought you?" His voice lowered. "None. And that is why you fear your love, why you fear it more than you disgust it. You are afraid, afraid of your feelings, afraid of what this love could bring, afraid of what it could bring Eragon… But most of all, you are afraid of Eragon himself."

Arya was too stunned to speak.

Orellon, knowing this full well, put his arm around her waist and lifted her up, settling her limp body back into the chair. "You should rest, now, after that disastrous attempt at a spell. You could sleep too, now that you've experienced it."

Arya felt a tear-curse whatever gods there might be, a _tear_-slide down her cheek. "What have you done?" she whispered in a broken voice.

"I don't do much," Spellbane said just as quietly. "I just open eyes."

"I wish you had never touched mine."

Spellbane smiled and began to walk away, leaving Arya as she began to close her eyes in her new exhaustion. Before he went from her sight, he turned and said, "Arya Drottningu, you should take some time to seriously consider what this love could do to you. With it, you could give confidence to Eragon, give him something to fight for. You would give him encouragement."

Arya's eyes closed at Orellon's soft parting words, "He will need it, before the end." 


	17. Gathering Mists

Murtagh paced the spot impatiently, barely noticing the charred and shattered trees around him, nor the circle of ash he was trudging through. He didn't even particularly pay attention to the fact that it was past midnight, completely dark outside. He trusted Thorn to survey their surroundings, and, frankly, he was so frustrated he didn't particularly care if he was attacked. After a moment of thought, he concluded that he would have welcomed it.

Scowling at the ground, he kicked a disintegrating branch out of his path and continued to pace, his legs stiff from riding on Thorn for so long. He noted with some disgust the ash beginning to cake on his boots.

_Could you stop?_ Thorn asked, the air rumbling as he yawned. The red dragon was curled up on the ground close by, surveying the area with large, scarlet eyes. _Wearing yourself down by walking ten miles in place isn't going to help the issue._

_It might make me feel a little better,_ Murtagh retorted.

Thorn eyed him with distaste. _I doubt that._ Murtagh didn't have to be Thorn's Rider to know what he meant; he had felt himself getting more and more angry with each passing step. He very much wished there was something in the vicinity that he could kill.

"Tryzan had better not take much longer," he grumbled to himself.

_And if he does?_

_Then I cut off his head and wait for him to show up again,_ Murtagh replied, more entertaining his aggravated fantasies than actually committing himself to the act.

Thorn chuckled. _There_is_something especially appealing about a servant who won't die if you remove his head._

Murtagh snorted. _True… At this point, I'm almost willing to deal with Galbatorix and have Tryzan's heart out. He's been more a hindrance than a help._

_He can only re-form so quickly,_ Thorn reasoned. _Though I agree with you. This is getting rather irritating. Do you see this ash on my scales?_ Murtagh stopped in his tracks and looked up as his dragon lifted a single limb, showcasing the mottled gray dust clinging to his otherwise lustrous hide.

_You just don't want Saphira to see you dirty,_ Murtagh accused.

Thorn bobbed his head from side to side, amusement rebounding across their mental link. _Perhaps. Though it's unlikely we're going to see her… I don't enjoy being covered in ash._

_You didn't have to lie down._

_I was tired._

_Then don't complain about it,_ Murtagh said, resuming his pacing and glancing occasionally at the small pile of Tryzan's clothing that had remained when Eragon had destroyed the Shade.

Thorn too was looking at the mound of dark cloth and tangled blades. _As much as he frustrates you, mind-brother, I am impressed that Eragon managed to best the Shade._

_He's fair with a sword,_ Murtagh admitted grudgingly. To himself, he added, _As good as me, in fact._ Then, to Thorn again, _But he didn't win by prowess. He stabbed Tryzan when he was distracted, the same way he defeated Durza._

Thorn stretched out his neck so that his head hovered over the mound, staring down at it with his huge, red eyes._Eragon is quite fortunate to even have these opportunities to take his enemies by surprise._

Murtagh scowled. "He did get all the luck in the family, it's true," he growled.

Thorn made no answer.

A strange, popping noise echoed throughout the charred clearing, along with a burst of a purplish light near the discarded clothing. Thorn, snorting, flinched his head back, climbing to his feet with fangs bared.

"Well, it's about time!" Murtagh snarled over the noise, striding over to the mound as the popping and flashing continued.

There was a single blinding flash, an echo of sound, and then a dark mist gathered from the shadows, collecting near the mound. The mists gathered into a tall, humanoid shape, thickening until they seemed solid. White and red spread across the surface of the shadow like oil over water, as if an artist was painting a Shade's features on a black statue. When Tryzan's features were fully distinct, the change stopped and he collapsed to the ground, completely naked.

Cursing, the Shade climbed to his feet, swearing to subject Eragon to a thousand tortures and damning the Dragon Rider to eternal misery. As the Shade extended to full height, his oaths began to include Arya as well-though the Shade stopped speaking abruptly when he saw Murtagh.

There was a short moment of silence.

"You failed," Murtagh stated.

Tryzan glared at him before crouching down to seize his clothes. "He took me be surprise," he said, ash circling away from his skin from some unspoken spell, drifting away like a vapor. "He shall not do so again."

Murtagh snorted. "I'm fairly sure that's what Durza thought of Eragon and myself," he said, glaring at the Shade. "I'm sure I don't need to remind you what happened to him."

Tryzan hissed. "Durza was a fool, and a weak one. I shall not fail again."

Murtagh felt his hand twitch to Zar'roc as Tryzan began pulling on his cloak and weapons, as if the sword were tempting him to run the Shade through. He almost succumbed; it was a close thing.

Tryzan straightened up, his various weapons strapping themselves to his body as he rose to full height. When the final buckle tightened, and Tryzan's face was once again hidden in the shadow of his cloak, he turned to Murtagh. "Where is that little Rider? He and I have unfinished business."

Murtagh glanced at Thorn, meeting his red-eyed gaze, and tightened his fist around the ruby of Zar'roc's pommel. "Spellbane interfered."

Tryzan hissed in frustration. "Damn that man! Will he ever leave me be?"

"It doesn't matter," Murtagh said impatiently, not willing to divulge the fact that he had no idea what the Shade was talking about.

_He's going to find a way to insult you anyway,_ Thorn warned, listening in on his thoughts.

Tryzan focused on him, and, after seeing the horrid visage that was his face, Murtagh was glad that Shade's eyes were obscured in shadow. "So you failed as well," Tryzan accused, his voice a low hiss.

Murtagh shifted on his feet. "What was I supposed to do? _Fight_ the man? He would have killed me before I'd gone five steps."

_And you didn't think to mention this when you challenged him?_ Thorn asked indignantly.

_Not right now, Thorn._

_I suppose we are lucky we only took three steps._

Murtagh silently agreed as Tryzan spoke, "Perhaps you should have. He has always used subterfuge in the past; Spellbane is a coward. I imagine he would faint at the first hint of opposition."

Murtagh-feeling Thorn do the same-rolled his eyes. "I very much doubt that."

Tryzan ignored him and made a strange, raspy, hollow sound, like air blowing through a rusty tube. He could only guess it was a sigh. "I assume that you at least trapped our prey to Spellbane's hiding hole?"

"Do you really think I'm that stupid?" Murtagh asked-a rhetorical question. _Answer that and I'm going to cut you in half,_ he amended in his head, almost hoping that the Tryzan would take the opportunity to insult him. "Of course we tracked them."

"Excellent. Then all is not lost," Tryzan said, looking around. "Where is that loathsome werecat?"

Murtagh rolled his eyes again. "Draum and one of your sisters are currently busy… Infiltrating Spellbane's home is no easy task."

Tryzan stared at him for a long moment, his red eyes shining in the shadow of the hood like red flames. Murtagh stared back evenly, narrowing his eyes as he scowled at the Shade.

Finally, Tryzan looked away. "Good," he said, the multiple voices within his own particularly pronounced. "I suppose you're not a complete loss."

Thorn growled. _Can I eat him?_

Murtagh glared at the Shade's back as it walked away. _I wish, Thorn._ He shrugged. _He'd probably make you sick anyway._

_He probably wouldn't taste very good either._

Murtagh slammed Zar'roc back into its sheath-he had half drawn it while talking to Tryzan-and climbed up into Thorn's saddle.

_Probably not,_ he agreed. _Now, let's go meet my brother. It wouldn't do to let Syre go overboard… She does that._

_The deceiver does tend to maim,_ Thorn agreed. _But Eragon might even enjoy it… The first three seconds of it, at any rate._

_Before she starts cutting him open, you mean._

Thorn let loose a small burst of fire. Murtagh was forced to shield his eyes from the red flames, which were blinding in the darkness.

_Of course,_ Thorn answered. 


	18. Whisper in the Night

_Eragon._

With a start, Eragon snapped opened his eyes and allowed them to slowly rove the room, scanning the darkest corners at the sound of his spoken name. He hadn't truly been asleep-there was far too much on his mind to consider that-but he had been resting, sitting in a lonely chair in the corner of one of the five rooms of Spellbane's home, his mind whirling with everything that had happened in the last day. His search of the room yielded nothing, for there was naught to see but the pitch black darkness around him.

"Light," he whispered to himself in the ancient language, activating the enchanted globes attached by elegant iron hooks to the stone wall and filling the tiny library with their silvery glow. With this new perception of illumination, Eragon scanned the room anew, keeping silent and still, straining his elven senses to pick up any hint of movement, any trace of a living being other than himself in the room. His eyes passed without pausing over the thousands of books lining the shelves from floor to ceiling, despite the indication by the titles and bindings that many of them were rare-possibly even one of a kind-and the knowledge within them worth more than his weight in gold. Several of the books-most of them, actually-had a strange, blurring effect on his eyes when he focused on them. Hours before he'd tried to read them, only to receive a throbbing headache for his efforts, while the books remained as secretive as ever.

Barely breathing, Eragon examined the room once more, listening for the slightest sound. There was something wrong, he was sure, someone there that shouldn't have been there.

In another room, he could hear the soft, slow breathing of one asleep, the rustle of the cloth as Spellbane shifted in his bed. Outside, insects buzzed and chirped, though it was faint, for the bugs could not come inside… And there, the soft padding of thick leather creeping over the wood floor.

A shadow bolted across the light shining through the crack under the door.

Eragon, silently yet speedily as he could, leapt up from the chair crossed the room in a single step, throwing open the door. His eyes were met with an empty, sandstone hall, the three other doors along the walls-besides the one to the entrance room-closed, darkness evident around the seams. The door to the front room, however, was open, the faint glow of the magical globes shining into the dark hallway. Eragon, glancing warily about, furtively stepped out of the library into hall, wondering if Arya was awake and wandering about, wondering if she had, for some reason, spoken his name, waking him.

_Eragon,_a voice whispered, as if shouting from a great distance.

Jumping in surprise, Eragon narrowed his eyes, and crouched low, glancing about frantically before realizing that the voice had spoken into his mind. He was sure it wasn't Arya-it sounded nothing like her voice, mental or otherwise-and he knew it wasn't Spellbane… So who could it be? Who else could be here?

_Eragon,_the voice said again, slapping softly against his consciousness like the lightest of ripples in a pond. By the way it then retreated from him, like the tide of a wave after it has struck, Eragon could tell that the being speaking to him was in the front room.

Slowly and silently, one foot in front of the other, Eragon stalked down the hall, pressing himself against the wall and wishing Spellbane had given him a weapon… Or at least the Eldunari of Morzan's dragon. He hadn't been permitted to hold the precious stone that possessed the soul of an insane dragon… But Spellbane had explained the object to him. It seemed ironic, the fact that Eragon had always been curious-almost dying to know, really (figuratively and literally)-how Galbatorix's power had been so limitless, and now that he knew, he was even less comforted than before.

Eragon stopped before crossing the threshold to the front room, still pressing himself against the wall as he attempted to peek around the doorframe to see who was inside. He didn't see anything-or anything living, that is-but this was perhaps worse than if he had. He was sure someone was in the room. Not being able to see them presented an interesting problem. Should he wait for said being to show himself? Or step into the room and look around?

The former didn't present much appeal to Eragon, so he carefully-mind and senses roaming the room for the slightest sign of movement or otherwise hostile activity-stepped out into the light. Without thinking, he brought his hands up to block an oncoming blow or cast a spell, whichever seemed the more necessary.

Amazingly, astoundingly… Nothing happened.

Eragon blinked, feeling rather foolish. After all he had experienced throughout the past two years, he had expected, at the very least, to find a new occupant-hostile or no-in the room. Coinciding with that, he had thought he would be immediately attacked. This stroke of luck-if it was indeed luck, it was too early to tell-was so contrary to his more recent experiences that it left Eragon feeling off balance, as if he'd missed a step on a flight of stairs. But where was the fall?

Still filling distinctly befuddled, Eragon lowered his hands and slowly walked to the fire-which somehow remained lit, despite the lack of someone to tend it-looking around slowly for whomever had whispered to him. Nothing out of the ordinary presented itself. Nothing that Eragon hadn't already seen, that is. It was completely dark outside, for even the light of the stars was obscured by a covering of clouds. The globes on the walls continued to glow peacefully and the fire crackled merrily, casting its orange, flickering light across the roughly hewn boards of the floor and table. Several long, dark strands of hair were strewn over the back of one of the chairs, catching the two different sources of light.

_Arya,_Eragon thought, reaching out to touch one of the strands. There was no real substance to the hair-after all, there were only one or two strands-but the idea of what he was touching put a lump in Eragon's throat.

_Eragon,_the whisper came again, this time a physical sound accompanying it, like a faint growl.

Eragon, tearing his hand away from the strands, jumped in surprise, nearly burning himself in the hearth. This time, Eragon had heard the growl, so he knew where to look; the huge opening that served as an entrance. Sitting there calmly on its haunches in the center of the entrance, just outside the influence of the light within, was a shadow that looked very much like an overlarge cat, feline eyes glinting with the mixed light.

Considering his most recent experience with a werecat, Eragon did not hesitate. While glancing about the room for a weapon of any kind, be it stick or stone, he broke the barrier separating him from the magic, flooding his mind with the river of light. As it suffused him, he opened his mouth to voice a spell.

Before he could decide what sort of spell to use-and it was quite a debate, as Eragon was not entirely sure what the wards around the werecat encompassed-the werecat stood up on its back two legs, its form shimmering, outline hazy, as if seen through water. In less then a second, the werecat stood before him in human form-the same one he'd fought the previous day.

"Please, stop!" it said, not pleadingly, but firmly. In the ancient language, it added. "I mean you no harm."

Eragon hesitated, assured now that he was, for the moment, safe. Yet, there was a niggling thought of warning nagging at the back of his mind, its origin and purpose unclear. For the most part, Eragon ignored it. _He couldn't have lied,_Eragon reasoned.

Narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the werecat, Eragon said, "Why are you here?"

The werecat bowed his head. "Please, I find this form uncomfortable. Will you allow me access to your mind, so that I can speak to you in my natural state?"

Eragon didn't even consider the question. "No," he said quickly.

The werecat nodded, his expression unchanged, as if it was just one in a line of many discomforts and thus easily accepted. "As you wish."

"Why are you here?" Eragon said again, still searching the room for a weapon. He slowly shifted away from the fire to the center of the room, where he would have more maneuvering space if the creature chose to attack.

"I," the werecat began, speaking again in the ancient language, "am here only to speak with you, of my own free will. I do not wish to fight… Only to talk."

Eragon felt his brow furrow while he accepted this as truth. "Why?"

The werecat looked agitated. "To make you understand. You must believe me, I did not choose this role… The king took me captive and discovered my true name…" His lips formed a snarl, and he began to hiss slightly in a catlike way as he spoke. "I would never serve that man if I had a choice."

Eragon narrowed his eyes, feeling himself relax in pity for the werecat. "What is the point, though? Why do you need to tell me this?"

The werecat regarded him sadly for a long moment. "I do not know… I… I felt compelled to come to you."

Eragon shook his head. "You risked myself or Spellbane attacking you for the sake of a _compulsion?_I don't understand."

The werecat pursed his lips, the expression strange because of his filed teeth. "My name is Draum," he said after a moment. "I have served the king for nigh on a century, and hated if from the beginning, as any sane individual ought to." Blinking once, Draum turned and took three steps away from the entrance, looking in askance at the stars. Eragon almost subconsciously followed him, stopping just inside Spellbane's home.

Draum resumed speaking with a rattling sigh. "Unfortunately for us all, the king _is_insane… Not in the way you would normally think, but something is absent in his mind that ought to be there, and, for some reason, it only makes even more dangerous."

"It was likely caused by the loss of his dragon," Eragon said. "Losing your dragon is like losing half of yourself… There's no saying what exactly it can do."

Draum smiled toothily, making Eragon flush slightly with embarrassment. Because of their difference in size, it was difficult for Eragon to remember just how much older the werecat was than him… And the way Draum was smiling now made Eragon realize that the werecat had likely considered Eragon's suggestion many times over.

"What you say is true," Draum said, taking another step away, his voice taking on a sad note. "The king took me prisoner because he thought that, as a werecat, I could gift him with prophecy, be an instrument in his reign." He shook his head slowly. "It is not so. I cannot serve him in that way, and for that, he gave me this." With a single, clawed finger, he traced the crescent scar that so disfigured his face.

"I am sorry," Eragon said genuinely, only beginning to comprehend the torture of captivity that servitude was to the werecat.

Draum's smile faded. "I did not ask for your pity, and neither is it fitting… You were not the one who put me in chains."

Eragon conceded the point.

Draum continued. "But my gift has not left me entirely. I can still sense the movement of fate in Alagaesia, though dimly through my shackles." He took another step out and turned around, facing Eragon fully. "I came her tonight, Shadeslayer, because I felt compelled to alert you, to warn you, and, if I can, give you the information you need to survive."

Eragon was skeptical. "Do your oaths permit you to do this?"

Draum opened his mouth, and then closed it again, a look of deep frustration on his face. "Yes and no. But do not bring up the subject again, unless you want my perceptions to change! If that were to happen, I could tell you nothing."

Eragon, after his talk with Spellbane, found this very understandable, and nodded gravely.

"As I was saying," Draum began. "My affinity with fate has lessened since I became shackled… But I can still see. Fate has shifted to a handful of people in Alagaesia… Among them, I can see only you… And your brother."

Eragon didn't even blink; this was not something he hadn't heard before.

"You two are the only people I can see…" Draum continued, squinting off into space. "I cannot feel the others… But know that your decisions, and likewise Murtagh's, will shape the destiny of Alagaesia as we know it… It is in you I see my freedom… And that is why I have come."

Eragon waited as Draum continued to stare up at the overcast sky. "Is that all?" he asked finally.

Draum looked down at him, blinking slightly. "No, there is more. I have… Information for you… Something that will help you to turn the balance in the war. I… I cannot sense the one whom it will most affect, but I know the object itself. The-" Draum stopped short as his body suddenly seized up, lean muscles bulging out under his skin as the werecat stiffened, his fingers curved, his face bearing an expression of agony.

Eragon leapt forward to the werecat's side. "What's wrong? What are you trying to tell me?"

"The last…" Draum got out, obviously suffering intense effort to do so. His green, cat-like eyes continued to glint in the light, but were cloudy with pain.

The werecat suddenly relaxed, collapsing to his knees. "That is I all I can say. My master summons me, and I cannot refuse the call."

Without even standing up, the werecat transmuted back into a cat and began to lope away into the shadows, barely escaping Eragon's hand as he reached out to snatch it. Eragon felt his fingers brushing the werecat's fur, but he could not secure a grip.

Reaching out with his mind, Eragon shouted, _Wait! The last what? What are you trying to tell me?_

To his astonishment, Draum stopped several hundred feet away, twisting around to regard him with glowing green eyes. _I am sorry for what I have done,_ the werecat responded. _Know that I have not lied to you, and know that my decisions were taken away from me. The choice was not mine. I can only hope that you will remember, and forgive._Draum turned back around and continued on, more slowly this time.

"Wait!" Eragon shouted reaching out a hand, magic flowing through him once more as he prepared a spell to bring the werecat back.

"Eragon?" came a voice from behind him.

Allowing the magic to dissipate, Eragon whirled around, straightening when he realized who it was. "Arya," he said, surprised. He had thought she was sleeping… Or at least sleeping as much as an elf can.

Arya was standing just outside the entrance to Spellbane's home, her black hair catching the silver light that shone from within. Her face, due to the light, was obscured by shadow, though, with his elven eyes, Eragon could clearly make out her features. Her eyes shone with green, but the fire that he normally saw there was subdued.

She looked around before settling her gaze back on him. "What are you doing out here?"

"I…" Eragon began, feeling his face crinkle in confusion at the prickling of warning in the back of his mind. "Nothing," he finally answered.

She took a slow step forward, looking around again before favoring him with a green eyed smile. "It didn't sound like nothing. Were you talking to someone out here?"

The prickling intensified as Arya came within arm's reach. Confused, Eragon looked around, examining the shadows for threats. Instead of answering, he reached out for her, intending to take her arm, but stopped when he remembered their last conversation; it had not gone well.

"Come, let's go inside," he said while drawing his hand back, meaning to get her to safety before the threat made itself known.

Surprising him, Arya took hold of his hand as he tried to step by, pulling him to a sudden stop. "No, let's stay out here," she said, slipping her delicate fingers between his.

Eragon felt off-balance, and regarded the elf with a raised eyebrow. "Why?" he asked.

Arya smiled again, stepping closer. Eragon froze as her face came with inches of his own. "I wanted to speak with you… Away from Spellbane."

Eragon felt all his coherent thoughts rapidly draining out somewhere in the proximity of his burning ears as Arya took another step forward, sliding her arms around his waist and resting her head on his shoulder. He was so confused he could not marshal a response in any form, nor could he control the sudden trembling the began to wrack his hands and feet.

"Arya… What…?" he managed to get out.

"Shh," she whispered, putting a finger on his lips and staring up at him with a lascivious smile that he never would have thought to see on her face. Still, it set his heart beating so fast it was painful; he was sure she could hear it. Despite the warning in his mind, the world around him was rapidly fading, contracting around Arya's face. Still smiling up at him, she hugged herself closer to him, pressing her body against his.

"Arya," Eragon gasped, his voice and body trembling. "What… What are you-"

"Relax," she whispered, interrupting him again. "Enjoy the moment…" she trailed off slowly as she pressed her lips to his neck, igniting the spot with heat.

Drawing in a ragged breath, Eragon felt himself draw his arms around her, pulling her close. Even as he pressed his lips to hers, the warning intensified-though this detail was lost on his preoccupied attentions. Joy soared through his chest as his lips moved with hers-but only for a moment. He hoped it was otherwise, but though Arya was… kissing him-even unlikely as that seemed-it didn't feel like Arya. This woman was unreserved, twisting herself around his body and pressing herself to him with unadulterated lust, all desire with no personal feeling, or the sweetness of love's first kiss.

_She feels nothing for me anyway,_said the single, coherent thought that broke upon his consciousness.

Eragon jumped and stiffened as a slim hand ran up his chest and then down his back, _beneath_his shirt. Eragon, however, in light of the single lucid thought he'd had a moment before, did not respond, but drew back, staring at the woman in his arms with confusion.

Arya's smile was playful, her eyes dilated and hungry. "What's wrong?" she asked, twisting her body against him and winding her legs around his, forcing him to support her weight off the ground.

Eragon barely heard her, so wrapped up in how _wrong_ it all felt right then, how off-balance he was. _Arya wouldn't act like this,_ Eragon was sure. _Even if she_did_feel something for me._

Arya let out a low wail of disappointment as he pushed her back slightly so he could see her face. "What are you doing?" she asked, keeping all but her shoulders firmly against him as he pushed her.

Eragon didn't answer, but only continued to stare at her, the warning intensifying.

It was then that it hit him.

The fire-the determined, piercing flame-that normally pervaded Arya's eyes was not only subdued… But totally absent. And the pine needle scent that, until now, had always permeated the air around her-or as he realized when he breathed in through his nose-was also gone. Narrowing his eyes and focusing further on her face, Eragon also grasped the fact that her skin-typically pale, smooth, and perfect, like white porcelain-was almost gray, ashen.

"You're not Arya," he stated, uncomprehending. This woman before him was clearly _not_Arya… But who else could she be? She resembled Arya so closely that he doubted he would have been able to distinct the two if he wasn't always so attuned to her.

The woman grinned. "Am I not?" she said, her eyes lighting again with hunger. Eragon shivered as he saw the lust there-but it was not the lust he was used to seeing.

"No," he answered, attempting to push her away. "You're not."

She clung stubbornly to him, hand gripping his shoulders so tightly under his shirt that it was almost painful. Eragon felt a flutter of fear as he leaned closer to his face, eyes blazing with lust and malice. He felt the tips of her nails pierce her skin, felt droplets of blood trickle down his back.

"Are you sure?" she asked in teasing, yet menacing tone, grinning in a feral fashion. Despite the force he was applying to her shoulders to push her back, she pressed the length of her body against him, wrapping her legs around his waist and dragging her fingers down his shoulder blades, tearing the skin and releasing a hot flow of blood.

Eragon's eyes widened as the pain hit him, but not because of the pain itself; he had just discovered that this woman had pinned his arms against his sides. He was completely immobile.

_Magic,_Eragon thought desperately as the woman curved herself further around him, exploring his body with her own. Even as he formed the thought, the woman tilted her head forward and pressed her lips to his neck, biting down hard. Eragon winced as he felt blood pour from the wound.

Laughing teasingly, the woman tilted her head back, sliding further upward against him so that she was looking him in the eye. Smiling with crimson blood on her lips, she said, "Silly Eragon." Wriggling slightly against him in a suggestive manner, she went on to say, "Don't you even want me?"

Eragon looked down at her, but had to force himself to look away; despite the differences, the woman simply looked too much like Arya. "No, I don't," he said in answer to her question, staring resolutely away from her face and struggling against her impossibly iron strength.

Eragon let loose a pained gasp as her grip tightened, forcing the breath from his lungs. Even as the world began to spin, he heard a small series of pops and cracks from his own body as his joints groaned in protest of the abuse.

"Such a shame," the woman said, tightening her grip and licking the blood away from the cut in his neck, her tongue rough against the raw skin. "We could have had such fun."

Somehow, her grip tightened even further, cutting off his air supply. Dots of light were already swimming across his vision, filling the dark void that was the clouded sky with orange stars.

"Who…" Eragon gasped out, his breathing nothing more than a hollow rasp. "Who… Are y-you?"

Smiling with crimson stained teeth, the woman who looked so much like Arya, yet was not, shook her head. As darkness-the darkness of unconsciousness, not that of the night around him-began to encircle his vision, Eragon felt himself collapse to his knees, the woman still wrapped tightly around him. He could barely breathe. As if she knew it, the not-Arya leaned forward with a wolfish grin and locked her lips with his, sucking the rest of his breath away before kissing him with feverish lust.

Eragon couldn't breathe, couldn't think. He knew that magic could save him, but the capacity to use it was beyond him-he could not remember the words, could not reach for it through his panic. Pain was building rapidly in his skull, and his lungs burned with need.

Dazed as he was, Eragon's thoughts were limited, but his instincts-the primal urges that surface within all humanity, and elves besides-were full intact, and were screaming the call for him to struggle. Despite this, Eragon no longer possessed the strength to do so, managing little more than throwing himself forward on his knees, sending the two of them-charlatan and Rider alike-tumbling down the hill, scattering rocks and clouds of dust in their wake.

A loud thud penetrated Eragon's ears, and the imposter's grip loosened, allowing him to roll away freely. Pain surged through his head and chest as air rushed back into his lungs, shocking his body with the abruptness of it all. Dancing stars flickered across his eyes as he gasped for air, attempting to satisfy his still screaming lungs. A sharp rock dug into his spine as he rolled onto his back and stared out the black sky, panting and wheezing.

A coughing hiss met his ears as the imposter got up some ten feet up the hill and strode toward him, scattering miniature avalanches of rocks as she approached. Eragon, still desperately sucking in air, rose painfully to his feet to meet her, seizing the sharp rock that had dug into his back a moment before for a weapon.

The imposter had a large, bleeding wound on her forehead, from which blood thickly poured out. Eragon froze momentarily when he saw this, his heart jumping up into his throat; though he knew it wasn't Arya, in the lacking light, the imposter looked so much like her that it was hard for him to see her bleeding at all.

"This could have been easy," the charlatan said, raising a dagger wielding hand. "But _no_, you had to go and make it difficult. You won't like this part as much as the last."

Eragon would have liked to tell her that that would not have been hard, but he was too busy leaning back out of her arm reach as she reached out to seize him by the neck. It was then that he was a perfect opportunity; with both her arms raised, it would take minimal effort to shove that rock through her soft, yielding skin and pierce her heart. He even tensed his muscles to do so.

He stayed his hand, glancing up at the face that so closely resembled Arya's.

And promptly saw stars as the heel of her hand smashed into his face with such force that his head hit the ground before his back. Eragon felt the cartilage and bone give away in nose with the blow, felt explicitly the hundreds of rocks tearing at his skin as he struck the ground. The rock slipped from his fingers as, for the second time in as many minutes, Eragon found himself staring at the cloud-covered sky, too dazed to order his thoughts.

This time the imposter's hand closed around his throat. Eragon gagged as she hauled him up to his knees, forcing him to look into her dull green eyes. Eragon's head continued to spin as she stared at him. Even then, he saw opportunity to strike her, to kill even, but he could not do it.

She laughed, an evil, almost hissing laugh. "You can't even bring yourself to strike me, can you?" she mocked. Eragon, his windpipe constricted to near nothing by her tightening hand, could not have marshaled a response even if he had tried. She laughed again. "I stand corrected. This _is_easy."

Eragon could only choke in response as she raised the dagger to the sky blade first, intending, no doubt, to knock him out with a single pommel strike of the oversized knife.

Suddenly, the imposter twitched, her face going vacant as the dagger slipped from her fingers. A crimson blade tip abruptly sprouted from her chest.

Eragon's heart felt like it was being torn in two as he watched helplessly. All he could see was that Arya was going to die, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. His entire being rebelled against the fact that Arya even _could_die… As such, it felt as if his mind and body were self-destructing as he beheld the sharp tip of the gore-stained blade sticking from her torso.

A dark vapor drifted away from the imposter's skin, like a thin stream of smoke, and Arya's image began to fade, leaving nothing but the red-haired, red-eyed visage of a female Shade.

Eragon's eyes widened as the Shade exploded and the spirit left her body, flying off into the night.

Arya-the real Arya-stood in her place, clutching a stained dagger, her fiery green eyes alight with fury and worry, her dark hair fluttering in the slight breeze.

Eragon felt his stomach sink in relief.

"Arya," he wheezed, his voice nasally because of his broken nose. "Your alive. Thank the gods…" He tried to rise to sitting position to embrace her, but could not. Apparently there was far more damage than he had thought.

"You fool," Arya breathed, dropping the dagger in the rocks and kneeling beside him, reaching down to wipe some of the blood from his face. Her voice was not accusing, but almost soft, vulnerable… It was very strange.

Eragon felt heat-whatever heat that had not already done so because of his abuse-rush to his face as her hands touched his cheeks ever so softly, brushing his blood from his skin.

Very softly, almost tenderly, she cupped his face. "You fool," she repeated, her voice even softer than before. "Why would you even _begin _to think that was me?"

Eragon couldn't bring himself to answer, but swallowed painfully, wishing, not for the first time-and nor for the last-that Arya actually did have feelings for him beyond those of a compatriot, or an over-concerned bodyguard.

But she was alive-perfectly and beautifully alive-and in that moment, that was all that mattered.


	19. Confused Temptation

Arya had to force herself to take her hands from Eragon's face.

"Come," she said, sliding her arm under his back and carefully helping him to his feet, unsure of how much damage had been done to his body. "That Shade might very well have not been the only danger about. We need to get back inside."

Eragon nodded unfocusedly, stumbling as he tried to take a step forward. Arya, more worried than she would have cared to admit, stepped forward and caught him before he fell, slinging his arm over her shoulder, fully aware now that Eragon was in far worse condition than he would ever confess to, least of all to her.

"Lean on me," she commanded.

Eragon made no indication that he had objections to this. His weight slumped against her, a burden she could easily cope with due to her elven strength. Arya could feel the heat of him burning against her side, could hear the violent hammering of his heart that sent blood thrumming through his veins and pouring from his face. She felt her own heart quickening in response, though whether to the potential danger around them or her proximity to the Dragon Rider, she was unsure. Grudgingly, she found herself forced to accept the possibility of the two working in conjunction with one another.

Arya pursed her lips in worry as she felt Eragon begin to drag his alongside her, his toes scraping twin strips of dirt beside them in the loose gravel. When Eragon winced-the pain evident due to his sudden incapacity to shield his mind-Arya almost bit her bottom lip, stopping herself just in time. In the corner of her eye, she saw the skin at Eragon's temple tighten as he winced again, his toes having been drug over a larger rock. The pain seemed to sharpen some of the comprehension in his eyes, but the Rider still stared unseeingly at the landscape around him, his mind filled with a dazed fog of pain and murkiness.

She felt her worry deepen when she realized Eragon was contributing absolutely nothing to the support of his own weight or their pace up the hill. _He needs healing,_ Arya thought, concerned about the Rider's weakness. Still dragging him up the hill, she began reciting a spell of healing, one with words so complicated even she did not know all of their meaning.

Her brow furrowed as nothing happened. She could feel the magic within her, could sense the river of light and power flooding through her body, waiting for release, but nothing happened. She tried again with the same result. A tinge of panic seeped through her cold control, beginning to crack the edges. _What has happened?_ she asked herself, hearing the beginnings of hysteria in her own mental voice. All her life, magic had been present, no more rare than eating or resting, and as common as either. She had been able to use it as long as she could remember, which was no small span in itself. What had changed? As an experiment, she attempted a far simpler spell, one of light. Nothing happened.

More cracks split along her control.

"I cannot use magic," she found herself saying aloud. The hysteria was in her physical voice now as well. She tried again, just for good measure. A small noise echoed from the back of her throat, something between a laugh and a sob. "What is wrong with me?"

Arya immediately regretted her panic as Eragon winced at the volume of her voice. "It doesn't… matter right now," he said, his voice haggard. "Let's just… Get back to the cave."

Finally succumbing and biting her lip for the first time in over a decade, Arya nodded and continued to help him along, beating down her own rising panic. Magic was as natural as breathing to her; to have it robbed from her was almost akin to losing a limb.

_I have more pressing concerns right now,_ she told herself coldly, feeling disdain for her own panic. Swallowing hard, she pressed on, pulling the Rider's arms further around her shoulders so that she was close to lifting him from the ground. His head bobbed forward groggily, coming to rest against her own. His forehead was blazing hot against her scalp, and strands of his hair mingled with hers, tickling her skin. Arya found herself swallowing hard again, for a whole different reason than before.

A worried pang shot through her heart as Eragon's eyelids fluttered, his breathing slowing. Arya easily saw the signs of concussion-most likely a severe one-in his eyes; both were dilated, one far more than the other. _He cannot be allowed to sleep,_ she thought with another small wave of panic, fully aware that if he closed his eyes, he might never open them again.

"Eragon," she said to attract his attention, aware of how hard it was to focus after a blow as violent to the head as he had suffered. As she had suspected, he barely reacted to her, and his eyes continued to drift close. "Eragon," she said again, a little more harshly. His eyes opened slightly and focused on her, still almost seeming not to see her. "You must stay awake," she said slowly so he could understand, looking him squarely in the eye. "You might not wake up if you allow yourself to sleep."

His unfocused eyes fell from hers, beginning to flutter again. "So… Tired," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. "Just… Want to rest… For a few minutes." His eyes drifted shut.

More panic seeped through the cracks. Even normally, this was a dangerous situation, but now, with Arya unable to use magic, it was terrifying. _I could lose him here,_ she thought, a sharp pain jabbing into her chest, mingling with the panic and fear already there.

"Eragon!" she said sharply, shaking him slightly. She regretted the action a moment later when agony tore through Eragon's consciousness, reverberating against hers. The Rider's eyes fluttered open slightly, but began to shut again in the same instant.

"Sorry," he said, the word an airy whisper. "Can't. Too… Tired."

Arya felt a lump form in her throat as she considered her next words. "Please stay awake," she pleaded uncharacteristically, too panicked to maintain her usual coolness. In the back of her mind, she felt scorn for this as well. She swallowed before finishing, "For me. Stay awake for me."

Eragon didn't move for a long moment, and Arya almost broke down into tears-another action she had naught but contempt for-but stopped when Eragon nodded, the action so minute she doubted she would have detected it if their heads weren't touching. His eyes opened to slits and focused on her, the pupils still uneven. The Rider's eyelids drifted slightly further apart.

He nodded again. "I'll try," he said, still sounding airy. "For you."

Arya found herself biting her lip again as she continued on, supporting Eragon's entire weight on her shoulder. He tried to stay awake-she could see that clearly not only in his face, but also in the brushing contacts she initiated with his mind-but it was plainly a losing battle, one to which he would quickly surrender. Arya's heart fluttered with helpless panic. Magic was beyond her.

Desperate, she plunged easily into his bleary mind and _pinched_, sending small shocks of pain not through his body, but through his consciousness itself. Eragon's eyes fluttered slightly in response, and it stopped the recession, but only for a moment. She pinched again, forcing him to wakefulness. His lucidity lasted only for a few isolated moments, but what she saw in those sparse instances shocked her.

She saw herself, a paler version of her own face, twisting with pain as a dagger emerged from her chest. She saw the life leave her own eyes. But, most of all, she felt the pain, the mind-numbing, heart-tearing agony that had blasted through Eragon at the moment he had seen it. She felt how his heart had stopped at the sight before spluttering back into an uneven rhythm. She felt the insanity that had hovered over him, threatening to overcome him if the apparition persisted.

_Does he really love me?_ Arya found herself asking, hardly daring to believe it as true. _Is this more than a childish infatuation?_

Rationality seized her a moment later. _Of course not. Even if it was, it would not change anything. You could still not allow yourself to love him._

Arya swallowed, coming back to herself. The pain she was sending through him wasn't working anymore; his mind was becoming accustomed to it. She resorted to pouring energy into him.

_Eragon, please, stay awake,_ she called to him mentally, having attracted his attention with the outpouring of energy. _Please stay awake. For me._

Once again, he responded, rousing himself to meet her demands, holding himself there as long as he could before succumbing once more. Arya continually talked to him, forcing him to repeat the process every few seconds, but even then, she could tell it was a losing battle.

Inevitably, his eyes closed, and his awareness faded.

"Eragon!" Arya found herself saying aloud, stopping when he fell against her as dead weight. She was surprised by the reality of how much he'd been doing to support himself.

He did not react to her cry, but rather tumbled into her arms like an enormous doll, limbs limp and unresponsive. His head fell forward onto her shoulder as she swung him before her, and his body slumped against hers. Arya felt a stickiness at her collarbone, realizing a moment later that Eragon's nose and mouth were still bleeding.

Panic began to seize her, barely suppressed. In her distress, she almost screamed for help, but managed to stop herself at the right moment. Astounding even herself, she began to hyperventilate.

_Calm down,_ she told herself, forcing her heart and lungs to slow. Eragon's slow breath barely tickled the back of her neck as she closed her eyes, regaining control over the emotions of which she'd been master these long years.

_How little it takes to bring them to the surface as of late,_ she noted, more to distract herself from the issue at hand than to actually wonder at the fact.

Very carefully, so as not to damage him further, Arya gently maneuvered her arms around the Dragon Rider's back and lifted him from the ground, almost cradling him against her. It was such an awkward position-as his body was significantly larger than her own-and his head and shoulders lolled limply over her arm, his arms and legs swinging like pendulums around her, making it difficult to move.

But move she did. She not only walked back to Spellbane's home-knowing only too well that there would be no one else willing to offer them shelter within a manageable distance-but ran. At times, her legs tangled with Eragon's awkwardly hanging limbs, nearly tripping her.

The living room of sorts was primarily the same as when she had left it. A fire-seemingly perennial and self-sufficient-was burning in the hearth, the star-like globes were glowing dimly, and the air was filled with the scent of roses. The one difference was that Spellbane was sitting calmly in one of the plush chairs, his feet propped up on the low table and his ankles crossed, arrogance practically seeping out of his every pore. There was a bottle full of a crimson liquid in his hand, from which he sipped leisurely.

He nodded as she entered the room, but did not look her way. Arya stopped, unsure. She had known that they needed to get back inside, but was unclear on what she was to do now that she was here. She didn't desire Orellon's assistance; of that she was sure.

It appeared that the decision was not her own.

Still not looking at her, Orellon raised one hand above his head and imperiously pointed down at the closest couch. "Sit him down."

Arya didn't move. "I do not require your assistance," she said caustically.

Orellon chuckled, light gleaming against his white teeth, before leaning back in his chair and taking a short swig of the crimson liquid. "Don't you?"

Arya fidgeted, noticing that her arms were burning slightly under Eragon's weight. She said nothing, though she knew Spellbane was right. Without magic, there was next to nothing she could do for the Dragon Rider.

Spellbane looked up at her over the back his chair, smiling again, his silvery hair concealing most of his face. "Come now, Arya, You're a century old, and you have yet to learn the wisdom of unbending your pride? You don't have to worry about Eragon. I won't hurt him. I'm quite qualified," he chuckled again, turning back around to face the fire. "As you ought to know."

Arya felt her jaw set. "It is not your proficiency that concerns me."

"Then you ought to remember that I too have a stake in keeping Eragon alive. The wards I've placed around my home bar everyone else from magic, but not myself. I can help him."

Arya remained rooted to the spot, consumed by her indecision. She was loathe to accept Spellbane's assistance-in any form whatsoever-but she was fully aware of the fact that she could not help Eragon on her own.

However much she disliked the notion, she knew she had no choice.

Striding to the indicated couch and offering Spellbane as wide a berth as possible, she gently, ever so gently, laid Eragon down. Wracked with guilt and loathing over handing him over to the ancient traitor, Arya took a step back-but only one. Orellon stood swiftly in a single movement and cracked his knuckles, taking the few steps to Eragon's side. In a movement unseen by Arya, the decanter containing the crimson liquid had been rested on the table.

Orellon nodded to her as he stepped by. "Good girl," he said with an amused grin, kneeling down on the floor. Arya shuddered and suppressed the urge to strike him.

A long silence passed as Spellbane stretched out one hand and gently pressed a long finger to Eragon's forehead. Arya almost jumped forward when Eragon twitched in his slumber, but stopped when the Rider fell still once more.

Orellon's brow crinkled, and he straightened slightly, vaguely waving one hand forward The table quickly scooted across the floor toward him, coming to rest in a convenient position that provided a seat when he lowered himself once more.

Arya frowned. "Why do you gesture when you use magic?"

Orellon didn't laugh, but a small grin turned up the corners of his smooth lips. "Theatrics, really. It amuses me, gives me gratification. At times, it better allows me to guide my power." He returned his hand to Eragon's brow. "Simple, really. One must find enjoyment in the small things of life."

Arya said nothing, silently digesting this imparted wisdom, if it could be referred to as such. She'd never considered looking at things in such a way.

"Ah," Orellon said quietly. "The damage is far more serious than I thought."

Arya felt herself stiffen, her spine turning rigid as a pillar of stone.

"Can he be helped?"

Orellon rolled his eyes and leaned back from Eragon's unmoving form.

Arya's jaw tightened. "What ails him?"

The old hybrid didn't even look at her. "For one, his skull is cracked in several places, not to mention his concussion. Hairline fractures lace the bones in his abdomen, and his spinal cord is pinched. If nothing is done, he may never walk again. There's also quite a bit of internal bleeding." Before Arya could process the seriousness of the situation, Orellon raised a single finger and held it over Eragon's chest. "Luckily for you, this is an easy fix."

As Arya cried out in protest, Spellbane swung his arm down with enough force to shatter bones. Instead of striking Eragon, however, he simply tapped his chest with two fingers, somehow dissipating the initial force of the blow.

With a sharp gasp, Eragon shot up to sitting position, eyes tearing wide open. His expression was panicked, and he tried to get up, but Spellbane pressed a hand to his chest, holding him in place.

"Calm down, little Rider," he said in a calming voice. "You're safe here." He glanced up at Arya, a mischievous smile playing about his features. "For the moment, at least."

"Where am I?" Eragon asked in a thick voice, seeming to have not seen Arya.

"I don't like to repeat myself," Spellbane said, bearing a smile all the same. "But you're safe. Among friends, in a manner of speaking."

"Where's Saphira?" the Rider inquired suddenly, trying to push his way up again. Spellbane restrained him once more.

"Saphira is safe," Orellon answered, urging Eragon to be still.

Eragon pushed him away and swung his legs out from the couch. He started to get up, but his legs seemed to fail him, and he fell back against the couch, face twisting into an expression of deep pain. Curling in on himself, he held his head with his hands, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. "My… head…"

"Disorientation is normal-and expected-after a healing of the brain. You'll be fine."

Eragon nodded mutely, still holding his head in his arms. His expression relaxed somewhat, though Arya could tell that he was still in pain.

She dared touch Spellbane's mind, but only the fringes. She had no intention of being destroyed by the power existing within his psyche. _What did you do to him?_ she spat out angrily.

Spellbane's reply was amused. _Why, I healed him of course. What, did you think I had remolded his mind to my wishes?_

Arya physically blinked. _I certainly hope not._

_Good. Because I didn't. All I did was heal his brain; he just might have a headache for a while as his memories attempt to rework connections._

Orellon was suddenly standing before her. Arya jumped, but otherwise didn't react. _Will he be alright?_ she asked.

_Of course,_ Spellbane answered with a mental chuckle. _Would I leave him alone if was in doubt?_

_That would not be mine to know._

_Exactly. That is why I ask that you withhold your prejudice from me. You don't-and likely never will-know the reasons behind my actions, and neither do you know everything I've done in the first place. Have peace, little elf._

Arya swallowed, otherwise unresponsive as Orellon began to walk away.

Eragon suddenly exploded to his feet, "Arya!"

Arya was at his side in less than a second. "I am here, Eragon," she said, taking his arm and gently pushing him back down to the couch.

Eragon's wide eyes softened at the sight of her, the panic melting from his face. One hand raised to touch her cheek, an action Arya could not find it within herself to reject. "You're alive," the Rider whispered, his fingers gently stroking her cheekbone. Unexpectedly, Eragon pulled her into his arms. "I thought you were dead!" he proclaimed in a thick voice, his trembling barely containing his sobs. He rested his face against her shoulder and neck, burying his face in her hair, inhaling deeply as if he'd been drowning and she were a breath of fresh air.

A lump formed in Arya's throat, and she found herself frozen, her mouth open in response she could neither find nor give. Over Eragon's shoulder, she could see Orellon hovering in the back of the room, a knowing smile on his face.

"Thank you," she told him grudgingly, though not untruthfully.

Orellon smiled back. "It was my pleasure. I leave him in your care now." He started to turn before stopping and looking back at her. In an almost mocking voice, he said, "Remember, you could encourage him." He raised one finger inclining his head meaningfully. "Don't forget."

_As if I could forget now anyway,_ Arya thought with a touch of venom as Orellon passed into the backrooms of his home. A moment later, it struck her that it was likely that was the whole point of his command at all.

As the door closed behind Spellbane, Eragon raised his head, his hand rising to her cheek once more. Arya felt her eyes drift shut as his fingers trailed burning fire across her skin, a fire that flared up within, made her chest feel as if it were swelling, a fire that chased away her indecision, leaving Spellbane's last words screaming in her mind. She opened her eyes, unsuccessfully attempting to quell the longing within her.

Eragon's eyes were tender as his fingers tangled with her hair, sweeping it behind one pointed ear. Her resistance and will were crumbling; she knew in the back of her mind that this was nothing good, yet she could not stop it. She so badly wanted some measure of comfort, wanted to take Eragon in her arms, to _feel_ the solidness of him, to be certain that he was truly healed and not some fanciful illusion of her mind.

She shifted uncomfortably. "Eragon…" she whispered, closing her eyes again.

Eragon's hand snapped back from her face as if burned, a charged tension immediately setting over them, even in silence.

"Forgive me, Arya Svit-kona," he said softly. "I… I am not myself right now."

_Yes you are,_ Arya said to herself, opening her eyes. Eragon was shifting away from her on the couch, his eyes downcast and his expression still one of pain. _You are more yourself now than ever before._

The silence lengthened, and the fire crackled.

Eragon shifted in his seat. "Arya, I am truly sorry. I didn't mean to-"

"It is alright," Arya said, surprising even herself. _I seem to be doing that more and more as of late,_ she noted. Eragon's brown eyes, still hazed with a cloud of pain, bored into hers, a heartache she could understand only too well swimming within their warm depths. Arya had to look away, choosing to examine her own hands instead.

Blood stained her fingers. Confused, Arya stared down at them, unsure where the gore had come from.

"Arya!" Eragon exclaimed, apparently having noticed the same thing as she. "You're bleeding." He was at her side in an instant, gripping her wrists and rotating her hands in the light.

"No," Arya said, pulling her hands away and viewing them for herself while subtly inching away from the Rider. "No I am not."

Eragon looked at her in confusion for only a moment before looking sharply down at his chest. Apparently not finding what he was looking for, he twisted in his seat, trying to touch a spot on his back.

He stopped with a short grunt of pain.

"Stop," Arya said, finding herself moving forward without prompting herself to do so. "You're going to hurt yourself."

"I believe it's too late for that," he said, looking straight forward as Arya pulled him to his feet and examined his back. Her heart caught at the sight of the dark gash stretching from his shoulder to opposite hip. Eragon's shirt was shredded around the wound, and bits of cloth clung to the drying blood, along with small stones and dirt.

As it seemed to be shallow, it wasn't life threatening, but it could still prove to be serious if not treated. The blood slowly oozing from the wound only hardened Arya's certainty of this.

"How bad is it?" Eragon asked, his voice a little clearer than before.

"It is serious," Arya replied. "But not life threatening." She gently touched the inflaming edge of the slash. Eragon didn't react, but she noticed him stiffening slightly. "Take your shirt off; I need a better look at this."

"Can't you just heal it with magic?" he asked, attempting to shrug out of the torn garment. He appeared to be having trouble, so Arya helped him to pull it up and over his arms, trying to appear oblivious to Eragon's expression of pain.

"No," she said, tossing the bloodstained shirt into the fire. "Spellbane has wards around his home that do not allow me to do so. We will have to use ordinary means."

Eragon accepted this silently, allowing her to push him down to sit on the table. Arya could feel his eyes on her as she searched the room for the materials she needed. She found them quickly, and it was only as she set the basin of water and the cloth on the table beside the Dragon Rider that she wondered why Orellon had not healed this gash as well.

It appeared Eragon was thinking of the same thing. "Why didn't Spellbane heal my back too?"

_Why indeed?_ Arya thought, suspicions whirling through her mind as she dipped the cloth in the basin. Outwardly, she said only, "I do not know. He… Is a strange man."

"Yes," Eragon said vaguely, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. "Yes he is…"

Arya said nothing, but gently dabbed at Eragon's wound with the cloth. He sighed in relief. She worked in silence for a long time, working diligently to clear the gash of debris, trying to be as gentle as she could. She winced herself every time Eragon stiffened. The water in the basin quickly became sanguine, so she replaced it with a pump she found in a corner.

As the silence stretched on, Arya found a question on her lips. "How is it," she began, "That you have sustained more injuries in the past week than the month before?"

Eragon smiled over his shoulder at her. "That's not necessarily true, but I think it's Fate." He faced frontward again. "I seem to have made her angry."

Arya laughed a little at that. "I thought Fate favored you."

Eragon shrugged, cutting the motion short with a less than obvious grimace of pain. "She has to balance the scales sometime."

Arya continued to smile as she worked, but did not respond.

"You're smiling," Eragon said, looking at her over his shoulder.

Arya quickly wiped said expression away. "I was. What of it?"

"I haven't seen you smile so since we were in Ellesmara."

Arya had no reply for that, so she allowed the silence to reassert itself.

After a time, Arya stood up, her work finished. "It is done," she said, wringing out the cloth in the basin. "The wound is clean. I can do nothing more at this time."

Eragon stood smoothly, the pain gone from his eyes. "Thank you," he said, staring down at her.

Arya took a step back, looking away from his face and carefully avoiding the sight of his bare torso. "We should find something to bind that with," she said, gesturing toward the Rider without looking at him.

His only response was silence, for which Arya was glad. Something within her had broken, and in its absence, Arya found herself desperately confused. She needed a few moments alone with her thoughts before she did something rash and improper.

Taking the basin full of blood-laced water, she excused herself from the room and stepped outside, where she unceremoniously dumped the water among the stones and rocks. She watched without seeing as the water trickled through the gravel, carrying some of dirt and more minuscule bits of stone with it down the hill. Throughout it all, blood drifted like a vapor.

Why _hadn't_ Spellbane healed Eragon's back? What was the point? Arya did not understand, and in her lack of comprehension, she found herself forming speculative theories, all of which seemed ridiculous. _But then again,_ she thought. _Are not all of Orellon's choices unfathomable?_ The man was a conundrum, an anomaly that could neither be explained nor rationalized. _His thoughts are truly above my own,_Arya concluded grudgingly.

Looking up at the sky, she cursed the dark clouds. She could have used the comforting sight of the stars that night. Confusion roiled within her, far more than she was accustomed too. Her head was spinning, her heartbeat felt elevated, and there was a strange lightness in her chest. She reasoned for a moment that she might be ill, but disregarded the theory almost instantly. She was fully aware of what ailed her.

Sighing, she reluctantly turned back to the entrance of Orellon's home, wishing she could flee not only the traitor himself, but Eragon too. It would have been safer for all concerned.

_Except for Eragon,_ she said silently.

Eragon was standing when she came back, a pained, disgusted expression on his face as he attempted to tie a long strip of cloth over his wound by touch alone. Arya quickly set the basin down.

"Eragon, stop. You are going to hurt yourself," she said, striding toward him. "Let me help you."

Eragon rolled his eyes, but did as she asked. With one hand, he held out the strip of cloth to her, the pained expression still on his face.

Glancing up at his eyes, Arya asked, "Is there something wrong?"

Eragon grimaced before answering. "It has just occurred to me," he said. "That I kissed a Shade."

Though there was nothing particularly humorous about this confession, Arya found herself smiling all the same, a small laugh echoing in her throat. Eragon, after favoring her with a puzzled look, smiled back.

"Now, be still," she commanded of the Dragon Rider, stepping around to his back. He complied without complaint. It took only a cursory glance at the wound to tell that she was going to have to tie the cloth around his torso like a sash, which she explained to Eragon while stepping around to face his front again.

"If that's what you need to do," Eragon said lifting his arms from his sides so she could go about her work.

This was different than cleaning the wound. Now Arya could see his face.

Her heart quickened slightly as she stepped closer to him, practically pressed up against him as she draped the cloth over his right shoulder. Reaching around his waist, she snagged the other end of the cloth and brought it around to tie the knot.

She was not oblivious to the way Eragon trembled at the light touches of her fingers and her closeness. Within her mind, she attempted to ignore it, but found that she could not through the pounding in her ears.

It was brought to her attention when she tried to tie the two ends of the cloth together that she was trembling as well. Soft, almost ignored warnings rung in the back of her mind, telling her she should not be doing this, but should have let it be.

Her fingers shook as she stared intently at the half-formed knot, determined not to look up at his face and see the longing there. Nor did she want him to see the longing on her own.

Finally, even with her shaking fingers, she managed to secure the knot. Still looking down from Eragon's face, she started to step back, saying, "It is done."

His hands caught her arms at the elbows, rooting her in place. Arya's heart stuttered quickly before thundering on at a relentless pace, partly in desire, partly in panic. This could not be happening. This _should_ not be happening. She forced herself not to look at his face, but stared rather at his hands as they restrained her.

A moment passed where neither of them moved.

Swallowing with a suddenly dry throat, Arya found her voice and said, "Shurtugal, release me."

Somehow, she was suddenly sure she had said something dreadfully wrong.

"I see it now," Eragon said softly, the warmth of his breath caressing her brow. "You called me Eragon before, but now it's 'Shurtugal' again." Arya felt herself beginning to shake and forced herself to remain still. "What changed?"

It took a moment for Arya to recover her voice once more. "We were friends once," she whispered. "I have not forgotten. I am not immune to slips of the tongue."

Eragon didn't respond, but simply continued to hold her arms in an iron grip, his breath warm against Arya's face, but the heat of his body quickly becoming oppressive. They were so close now that Arya could feel waves of heat rolling off his skin with every beat of his heart, which was rapid in itself. Arya trembled again, almost like a shiver.

"I don't believe you," Eragon said. "You have lied to me before, using my safety as justification." Arya realized then that Eragon could feel her pulse in her arms. "Who's safety are you concerned with now?"

Arya swallowed again. "Everyone's. Now, please release me."

Eragon ignored her. "It's an act, isn't it?" he pressed on. "Who are you acting for? And why?"

"Shurtugal, release me. You are frightening me." It was only a partial lie; Arya was not frightened of Eragon himself, but rather of what would happen to him-and, consequently, her-if this continued to where she could foresee it going.

Eragon laughed. "You're not frightened of me. Right now, you could kill me before I even knew what was happening." Arya felt the warmth of his breath on her scalp increase as he lowered his head closer to her. She trembled again, barely able to note that he too was shaking. "But you are afraid," Eragon continued. "What are you afraid of?"

"I-," Arya began, finding that she could not continue. She realized that Eragon wasn't even holding her arms anymore, and hadn't been for a full minute. Still she hadn't moved. She couldn't find it within herself to do so.

"Arya," Eragon said.

It was simply said, and contained no words besides, but Eragon's voice was thick with emotion when he said it. It was a statement, a pleading for attention.

The rational part of Arya's mind screamed for a halt when she began to raise her head, but she ignored it, throwing caution to the winds as she stared up into Eragon's eyes. They were soft and warm, pleading for understanding.

Eragon's eyes flicked from one of hers to the other. "What are you afraid of?" he asked again, even more softly.

Something changed in Eragon's expression when he beheld her own, a shift from pleading to contentment, and from there to wonder. He stepped closer to her. Arya could hear his heartbeat now in addition to her own as his arms began to encircle her.

In a matter of a second, Arya found her arms around Eragon's neck. In a matter of another, Arya was pressing her lips against his.

Eragon inhaled sharply as their lips touched and pulled her against him, as if he were trying to breathe in the very essence of her. Arya found herself clinging to him in return, trying to bring herself as close as she could, to feel the rugged lines of him that set him apart from any elf.

Something broke in her mind, and Arya felt herself lightening, as if the burden of years of pain and loneliness were being lifted away from her, drained away in the sweetness of Eragon kissing her. Her heart seemed to melt in her chest as he pulled her close against him, his hands slowly trailing up her spine. She felt her own fingers tangle in the hair on the back of his neck. His whole body trembled against hers, but Arya barely noticed. Her mind seemed to be soaring among the clouds, flooded with pleasure and relief, much like the first sip of water in days of travel through a harsh desert. His lips moved softly, tenderly with hers, relieved, it seemed, to finally have this moment. Arya could sympathize.

After what seemed to be days, they finally broke apart, leaning back in each other's arms to look at the other with wonder.

It was then that the world came crashing back around her. All of Arya's responsibilities, her obligations, came rushing back into her mind, bringing with them the reasons why she had attempted to avoid what she had just done. Horror and self-disgust filled her in equal measures.

She tore herself from his arms and turned to face the fire, pinning her ill-behaved hands against her sides with crossed arms and clamping her traitorous lips together. She didn't turn around to see what Eragon's reaction would be; she feared it would break her once more.

Neither spoke.

"Did I do something wrong?" Eragon asked, his voice puzzled and a little hurt.

"No," Arya said immediately. Cursing herself, she amended with, "Yes. But the fault is mine to share."

Eragon didn't respond straight away. "Then what's wrong?"

Arya closed her eyes in shame. "This. This cannot be. I should not have done that, and I will not do so again."

She heard him stride toward her. "Arya, I don't-"

"You do not have to understand!" she snapped. "This cannot happen!"

Eragon stopped, for a moment, but then resumed his pace. "Arya," he said consolingly, his arms starting to wrap around her waist. Arya felt herself begin to loosen at the touch.

"Do not touch me!" she snapped, tearing away from him, feeling as if she were leaving part of herself behind as she left him standing before the fire with empty arms. She walked forcefully to the door in the back of the room, refusing to give the Rider another glance. With a violent tug, she pulled the door open so hard that it almost flew from the hinges. Forcing herself to stare resolutely forward, she strode into the rooms beyond.

Behind her, Eragon's footsteps followed. 


End file.
